


Over the Hills and Far Away

by operationhades



Category: Supernatural, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Community: sncross_bigbang, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Mutant Sam Winchester, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000, Xavier Institute, hurt!Dean, mutant!Sam - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:09:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/operationhades/pseuds/operationhades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam was a fourteen year old mutant when he walked in on an injured Dean staring up at the barrel of a gun held by John Winchester. And after that, with Sam at the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning and Dean throwing John, every other hunter in the country, and a pissed Yellow Eyed Demon of their trail, things only get progressively worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the sncross_bigbang on Livejournal and beta'd by novakev.

****"Dean, Dean- oh god,"

 

Cough. Wheeze. "S'm...?"

 

"Oh god, Dean- it's me - Jesus - don't talk, I'll take care of it, I'll take care of you - I got you, fuck, I got you."

 

Moan. Gasp. "S'my..."

 

"Dean, don't worry, I know, I know - no hospitals. God, how could he? Shit."

 

Gasp. Gasp. Wheeze. A car let loose a mighty horn at them, irritated at the slick driving Sam was letting loose on the roads.

 

"Oh god." The 14 year old kept chanting, knuckles white across the steering wheel. "Oh god." A glance in the mirror showed him Dean was out for the count, head lolled against the window in the back seat, right hand unconsciously clutching at his left ribs. His left was still applying pressure on the profusely bleeding wound in his right shoulder, the position unwittingly making Dean look like he was hugging himself.

 

God, his big brother looked so small.

 

Of course Sam couldn't take Dean to the hospital - like he ever could - it would be hard enough trying to explain away the injury that looked like a rabid animal, sixteen times larger than a killer whale made as well as where their guardian was. Dean could get away with the latter - he was eighteen - but there was no way the officials would believe it if Sam said Dean was his guardian.

 

And there was no way he was calling Dad.

 

"All my fault." He whispered to himself, misty eyes taking in the sign that welcomed him into a new state. "All my fault." All his fault, and once again Dean paid the price. Sam felt sick as he glanced at his brother's pasty white complexion, freckles standing out glaringly, eyelashes long enough to cast shadows on his cheek. God, Dean always paid for Sam's mistakes.

 

But how the hell was Sam supposed to know _this_ would happen? How the hell was he supposed to know he'd walk in from getting supplies to fill up their rock salt canisters, only to enter their current dump of a home to see Dad standing tall and furious, aiming his Desert Eagle at a concussed-out-of-his-mind, sprawled on the floor, blinking groggily as he stared up, Dean? How the hell is _anyone_ supposed to know that?

 

But he had an idea - Jesus, he hoped it'd work - and if there was one thing Sam was sure, it was that this mess? This whole mess that was completely his fault? He'd fix it.

 

This'll be the last time Dean paid the price.

. . .

 

The '67 Impala that pulled right up to the gates had more than a few of the kids ogling shamelessly. Sleek, black, and well cared for, the car looked like it was _alive_ , like a prowling beast demanding entry into the Institute.

 

But it was the scared voice on the other end of the intercom that had the gates opening up.

 

Logan couldn't hear _that_ though, all he saw was a hand buzz the intercom, the low murmurs of a quick two second conversation, and the gates opening up with not even a creek, swinging wide open and allowing the black predator of a car to roll through all sleek like. He _did_ catch a glimpse of the driver though, as it passed by him and the kids - the face of a barely teenage boy with floppy hair, staring wide eyed at a few of the kids who'd returned to their assigned activity before returning his attention to parking the car at the entrance.

 

Cyclops came out of the building, followed by Storm and Jean, and Logan wondered whether it was something he should be there for. But he hadn't been called, so he only watched out the corner of his eye as Cyclops moved into the back seat and picked up another stranger with psychic help from Jean.

 

And for that, Logan didn't have to be close to smell the faint stench of blood.

 

Cyclops and Jean hurried off back into the building - probably taking that guy to the good doctor if nothing else - while Storm carefully led the boy after them. Logan followed along with his eyes as the powerful woman spoke to the boy, holding his hand and gently pulling him along. For a moment, it seemed like the boy would do just that, and why shouldn't he, if he was just a little kid? But to Logan's, and evidently Storm's, surprise, the boy gave a sudden start, shook his floppy brown hair wildly, said something fiercely to Storm - something like an order, with a finger pointed towards the building, after the wounded guy - and stalked back to the car. Storm wasted a split second in shock, but immediately rushed forward after the kid, bending down to speak through the window as the kid buckled himself in.

 

Logan decided to ditch his own kids, who by now should know well enough what he expected, and jogged the few clicks towards the two just in time to hear the kid snap out an irritated "fine". He watched Storm open up the passenger door and climb in, and without a pause, he ran the rest of the way and yanked open the back door just as the kid started up the engine and put the black beauty in reverse, seating himself calmly in the back and closing the door after himself.

 

Storm gave him a frown, but Logan was too busy rolling the window down and trying to get rid of the heavy sick smell of blood concentrated in the backseat. Neither noticed the kid draw out a gun, but they did notice it when the sound of it cocking forced them to look.

 

"Sam," Storm said carefully, shock written over her face. "Sam, this is Wolverine, he's one of the teachers at the Institute. He's OK, Sam."

 

Teacher. He's a freakin' teacher. Hell, it still felt damn weird being called as such.

 

The kid - Sam, Storm had called him - kept the gun levelled carefully at the Canadian, face stoic. Logan couldn't help but be impressed by the stance, turned around slightly in his seat that he could switch his aim to Storm if he had to, but not too much to lose Logan out of his sight. And if Logan was right, the kid obviously took Storm to be a greater threat, if the way he inclined his head in a politely listening way was any indication.

 

Damn, the kid didn't even look 16 and he had good instincts. Maybe a mutant? Maybe his power had something to do with it - would explain why he was at the Institute.

 

The kid frowned slightly though, finally giving a huff and pointing his gun elsewhere, very pointedly not switching on the safety just as he kept the weapon in his lap. The black car - so much sweeter inside, now that he could hear her purr - rolled out of the drive way, leaving the Institute behind, prowling down the road with a level of skill no kid should have.

 

"How old're you, kid?" He finally asked, curious despite himself.

 

The kid's eyes flickered back at him for a moment, cold, assessing, before losing some of that rigidity, face crumbling back into how a kid should look. "Fourteen." He said, sounding exhausted and drained of the fight Logan had seen in him.

 

"Sam," Storm began from her shotgun seat, voice calm and enticing, with a lace of that power that was so instinctive to her others automatically fell in line. "How about you tell us what happened?"

 

The kid sighed, shoulders going loose, turning down a road until he entered downtown. He drove slowly, making the car glide across the asphalt, people gazing adoringly at the beast, even if they didn't know the difference between an Audi and a Hyundai. They drove past the county's main mall, Sam circling twice like he was searching for the optimum audience before finally hitting the gas and cruising out of the place.

 

"Need to be seen." He said haltingly, talking more to himself but letting the two outsiders in on his thoughts. "Need to show that the car came and left. That _we_ came and left."

 

"Why?" Logan shot out from the back, dimly paying attention to the outskirts of town zipping by them. "Who you got on your tail, kid?"

 

Storm frowned at him again, but kept quiet, watching as the kid shot death at Logan through his rear view mirror. "It's Sam." He bit out, irritation flavouring his two words. "My name's Sam. And Dad- John- Dad- fuck, I don't know. But I'm not taking the chance."

 

Oh. Runaways. Damn it, from his own Dad too. Big man probably didn't like the thought of his own having powers. "You a mutant, Sam?"

 

Eyes flicked up to the rear view mirror again, analysing him for a moment before nodding. Storm seized her chance. "And that's alright, Sam. It's OK to be who you are. Both me and Wolverine are mutants too, Sam."

 

"What's yer power, kid?"

 

The reaction on the kid was hilarious. Sam's face went from stoically calculating to incredulously disbelieving at Storm's soft endearment (which obviously wasn't fooling anyone) then to exasperated irritation, like he'd given up already on Logan.

 

"Telekinesis." He said, rolling his eyes with a huff. "And sometimes, I dream about certain things that'll happen. Always bad."

 

"And your beat up friend?"

 

This time, the look Storm gave him was serious, and Logan realised with an abrupt cutting of the car's engine that he'd apparently crossed a line. The Impala started up again, rolled into a small opening in between thick foliage, and Sam turned the ignition of and angrily left the car, going to the trunk with long strides. Storm shook her head at him, signalling him to follow her lead from now on, and she left before he could shout out his defence. How the hell was he supposed to know the kid would get touchy if he mentioned the guy whose blood he was sitting on? Touchy much?

 

"Sam, he didn't mean anything by that. Neither of us are your enemy. You know that - it's why you came to us."

 

Kid was covering the car up with a camouflage tarp by the time Logan got out; looking like he'd done the exact same thing, so many times before, he was barely paying attention to it. As if hiding your car in a forest was a freakin' chore.

 

"Sam," Storm tried again. "We've determined that the mutant gene is hereditary, it passes from family to family. There's a very good chance your... Friend... Has it too, if he's related. Maybe it's just recessive, or dormant. Or, if he already _is_ a mutant, it would help to know what he can do."

 

"Oh yeah?" The kid shot back, looking at them with fire in his eyes. "And what're your powers? Huh? I told you mine; I gave you that small bit of faith. How about returning the favour."

 

Damn, Logan thought as Storm looked surprised, kid is sharp _and_ paranoid. Definitely not something new to - he'd glimpsed a wicked looking knife hidden underneath the kid's shirt. Without much preamble, he fisted his hands and held them up to view as the sharp razors unsheathed themselves from his fists, gleaming in the light playing through tall trees. Storm sighed and massaged her forehead as the kid blatantly ogled the three blades, and sue a guy if Logan felt his ego stroked a little.

 

But then the kid looked thoughtful, eyebrows pushing down together through what little Logan could see past that stupid hair (seriously, what the hell are parents thinking nowadays?). "That looks more scientifical than... Telekinesis." The fourteen year old said slowly.

 

Logan just shrugged. "How old you think I am, kid?"

 

A confused look. "Mid-thirties? Why?"

 

Logan grinned sharply. "Let's just say I've been around _way_ longer."

 

"Logan here automatically heals from any wounds he sustains." Storm doggedly explained. "And _I_ can control the weather."

 

"The _weather_?" Sam spluttered out, wide eyes swinging from Logan's still unsheathed blades to Storm. "Like, you can make it _rain_? Snow? Thunder and lightning and _everything_?" Storm nodded, running her fingers through her hair. Sam just spluttered for a few minutes, mouth opening and closing, then promptly turned on his heels and began making his way out of the foliage.

 

The two X members hurried after the kid, just in time to hear him talk again. "Dean's my brother." He said, looking back at them for a moment before turning his attention back to the front. "He's not a- a mutant. Doesn't have any powers." A snort. "No matter what I thought when I was six."

 

The three exited the greenery, falling in line to walk down the interstate - Logan dimly wondered if they were supposed to _walk_ all the way back to the Institute.

 

"Dean is... He's normal. Power wise anyway. I'm the only one."

 

Logan snorted. "Not really kid. Could just mean he hasn't activated his yet. Or he never told you. He really good at anything? More so than others?"

 

The lizard eyes that skimmed over him looked far too old for a freakin' 14 year old. "Dean's good at a lot of things. So am I. _That's_ probably genetics. Not this." A hand sweep of himself indicated what 'this' was, and neither Logan nor Storm missed the disgust infused with the last word.

 

Before any more questions could get asked, Sam perked up at something, crossing the road to a lone gas station at the other side. The fourteen year old stopped at an old, beaten up, pick-up truck that barely looked like it could start up, and fished something from his pocket. A cautious look around and the kid was busy picking at the lock, deft hands moving two thin, metal looking things along each other, making the two act like a key until the door sprung open.

 

"What?-" The kid demanded, seeing Storm's disapproving look matched with Logan's impressed gaze. "You want to walk all the way to the Institute? Really?"

 

So they all got in, the kid hot-wiring the car just as easily as he had lock picked it, and drove them all the way back to the school.

. . .

 

The older guy woke up almost as soon as they entered, almost as if he'd felt his little brother entering the small clinic. Neither probably knew they were on loudspeaker - Hank had installed hidden microphones along with cameras so people could watch and hear from behind a one-way window, just like in cop shows - because the apparent brothers were arguing fiercely with it each other. Loudly.

 

"The older male should be swimming through his thoughts," Hank was saying, looking bewildered just as the 14 year old gave a mighty huff and launched into another tirade. "There are just so many drugs in his system right now to deal with the multiple injuries on him - heavens, he shouldn't even be awake."

 

"Maybe he's a self-healer." Logan grunted. "Just slower, so kid never noticed." And by kid, he meant both of them.

 

Hank dismissed the idea quickly. "No, all his injuries are exactly the same. Any difference would have manifested by now. Besides, evidence of previous injuries is abundant."

 

"Sam, you shouldn't have---!"

 

"---No, Dean! God, you're so infuriating! You could barely string together a and b and you're telling me I should have done _nothing_?"

 

Logan shook his head in wonder - kid was barely letting the other guy get a word in edgewise.

 

"Sam, he's our---"

 

"---If you say Dad, I swear to God I'll...!"

 

" _Sam!_ "

 

Jean startled next to him, having been standing there when Logan and Storm had arrived. Silence fell inside the clinic, the kid shutting his mouth so hard you could hear his teeth clacking. The older guy, who Logan could see wasn't much older at all with short dirty blonde hair, rubbed a hand over his face, looking old and weary in the same way Logan noticed Sam did sometimes.

 

"Sam, for god's sake, listen for just a second, OK?"

 

The 14 year old kept his mouth shut, lips thinning with the force, and gave a single, angry, nod.

 

"Shit, man. None of this is your fault. And none of this is Dad's." Sam opened his mouth immediately, a noise coming out right before getting smoothly interrupted by an older brother still rubbing at his face. "No, Sam!" He barked out, quickly shutting up anything Sam would have said. "Imagine if you saw one of your kids doing something like that, knowing what we know - would your first thoughts be 'oh, he must be a mutant'? Hell no. It's either a shapeshifter, a demon, or even a freakin' witch. Either way, it'll be something requiring a bullet to the head - or an exorcism."

 

Sam kept quiet. Logan shared a look with Hank and a confused Jean who mouthed 'shapeshifter? demon? witch?' at him. He just shrugged. How the hell was he supposed to know what the hell crap like that meant.

 

"If I suddenly started breathing fire, dude wouldn't you be real suspicious?" The guy - Dean - continued. "Don't blame Dad for thinking something got his sons."

 

A minute of silence passed, Dean put his hands on top of the blanket covering his legs and leaned back on the bed with nothing but a twitch of his fingers to attest to his discomfort.

 

"How did he find out...?" Sam finally asked.

 

Dean just shrugged, then frowned right afterwards - probably regretting doing that if the clenched fist and locked jaw was anything to go by. "The ghost." He answered instead, and Logan noticed the Professor leaning in closer to the window, absolutely fascinated by the two boy's conversation. "When you pushed Dad outta the way. He kinda realised neither of us were in touching distance."

 

"So he thought it was _you_?" Sam's incredulous reply came, disbelief colouring each word.

 

"He confronted me 'bout it. I told him it was me. Thought it'd be better than saying you and having to explain why we kept it a secret." A self-disgusted huff. "Didn't think he'd see some giant conspiracy where I was _corrupting_ you or something. Where was he when I had to give you The Talk? God, do I hate birds an' bees."

 

A flush climbed up over the fourteen year old's cheeks. "Ssshhh," Sam hissed. "What if they can hear?" A furtive glance was shot to the one-way window, which should be blacked out on their side, and right then the kid looked exactly his age.

 

His older brother gave a patronising smirk, cocking an eyebrow at the little brother. "Guess you'll have to explain away all this crazy mumbo jumbo talk." A wicked gleam and Dean started speaking progressively louder with his next words. "Y'know, like shapeshifter! And demons! And witches - with all their disgusting bodily fluids and goddamn curses! Let's not forget-phhmmphhh--!"

 

"God- Dean, you jerk!"

 

Cough, hack, gag. "Did you just stick your disgusting sock in my mouth?! Bitch!"

 

Storm's disapproving look at the language had Logan furtively hiding a snort.

. . .

 

Dean somehow procured papers claiming him to have full custody of Sam, soon after. He didn't have them yesterday, or this morning, but give Dean five minutes with a printer and a photocopier and he could forge the Mona Lisa. By hand. With dollar cheap paints.

 

Sam was sitting on Dean's hospital bed (in a personal - honest to god - clinic) daring the man in the wheelchair to refute the papers. While he bore into the man's face, Dean was as cool as a cucumber, telling the Professor (who also happened to be the head of Xavier Institute of Higher Learning - also called Xavier himself) he could call up the law firm right there and then and confirm the details 'if he so wanted too'.

 

Sam had no doubt the papers would go through too - Dean didn't just make fancy papers, he made whole freaking backgrounds for them so they'd pass through any checks. And every now and then Sam would sneak a peak of Dean pocketing the number of victims 101 and 634 who just so happened to be a lawyer. Or a cop. Or a doctor. Or even a CPS worker.

 

Dad barely paid much attention to the victims - all he did was take down the baddies. Not to save people, just to take down the baddies - the saving was just extra karma for his success in getting The Demon (note the capital letters). Survivors and victims were usually relegated to Sam, when Dean was busy doing the actual taking down of the bad guys, or it was relegated to Dean when Dad claimed he could handle the hunt alone.

 

But Professor Xavier wasn't a victim, or survivor - he probably believed humans were capable of enough evil that they didn't need to create fictitious monsters on top of it all. Wasn't there a quote or something like that? By Joseph Conrad...? Dean would probably say anyone who could believe in dudes with powers should be able to at least _acknowledge_ the possibilities of the supernatural. Dad would say 'we do what we do and we shut up about it'. Which brought Sam all the way back to the conversation he'd just had with Dean.

 

Where Dad thought Dean was a monster. Dad thought Dean was going to do something to Sam. To _Sam_. _Dean_ doing something to _Sam_? This being the same guy who pretended he didn't like Lucky Charms just so Sam could have the last bowl? This being the guy who's all "bitch, god Samantha, you're so freakin' chick flicky" while letting himself be dragged to watch said chick flick?

 

Did Dad know _nothing_ about Dean?

 

_Of course he doesn't,_ a voice in his head said, _he's barely home._

 

And just like always, Dean was letting it slide, letting it go, completely brushing it under the carpet and forgetting it ever happened. Just like always, Dean was rationalising it, making excuses, trying to use logic to it. There _was_ no logic to it! Dad thought Dean was a _monster_ and was ready to put a bullet in between his own son's eyes! How the hell do you explain _that_?

 

Sam felt so angry - so incredibly furious at the _unfairness_ of it all. Neither of them should've had to keep Sam's powers a secret anyway! What kind of a father was he if he couldn't even be trusted with the knowledge of something like this? If his own children were too afraid to let him know? Dad made Dean a _hunt_. A _hunt_.

 

Jaw locked, Sam watched as the Professor read the documents without much focus and instead smiled smartly at them. If the situation had been even the slightest different than what it currently was (read: Dad hadn't tried to kill Dean), Sam would have smiled back just as politely and done his best to be the good mannered boy his school teachers always praised him to be. But today, he was too jaded, too busy second guessing every word and expression a stranger gave them, too suspicious to believe in the good of people. Today, he was like Dean - except without the mask of grins and cocky smirks layered with witty humour.

 

The Professor didn't seem too bothered by either Dean's smart summary of the papers or Sam's stony glare, but there was just something _off_ about the man that had Sam's hackles bumping the ceiling. A strong hand trailed up his back and landed on his nape, squeezing it for a moment before simply resting there. Sam's constant vigilance relaxed slightly at his big brother's presence, the warmth of the bigger palm soaking into him and calming him down.

 

"... So I'd totally appreciate it if you guys could take in lil' ol' Sammy here for a while. Teach him how to bend a spoon or stuff." Dean said, finishing his monologue. Sam couldn't help but roll his eyes at the last sentence, remembering how Dean had thrust a fork in his face after the first time Sam had moved something with his mind. Dean could be a real jerk when he wanted to be.

 

The old man was already nodding his head, clasping his hands together in that educated way that made Sam feel so worlds apart. "Of course," he answered them. "Sam is welcomed here at Xavier Institute. This whole Institute was intended for young mutants such as him."

 

Sam winced, Dean's hand on his little brother twitching in answer. But Dean just nodded as Sam schooled his face at the curious look from the Professor.

 

"That's great. And, uh, really sorry about our entrance. I'll pay you back for your medical assistance."

 

The Professor waved Dean off, looking highly amused with a knowing glint in his eyes, as if he knew whatever payment Dean could make would be coming from a card in a different name. "That is of no concern to us; please, do not worry about such trivial things. Though may I ask a question?"

 

Next to him, Dean nodded amiably, no doubt coming up with a thousand and one stories for multiple questions the Professor could possibly ask.

 

"Are you also a mutant?"

 

Dean faltered. Sam huffed in irritation and rolled his eyes, wondering whether these guys were seriously obsessed with 'mutants' or not. And seriously, separating yourself from 'humans'? So not the best way to not inspire fear. Seriously, as long as something wasn't supernatural, Sam pretty much considered it human.

 

Next to him though, Dean sat wide eyed, lips slightly parted, obviously completely taken by surprise by the question. Sam couldn't blame him, because seriously, Dean with powers? Sam could just imagine it now, a Dean with something cool and totally not girly like getting headaches whenever a vision came, or being unable to control his psychic abilities. Dean would probably have something like a big cat's reflexes - be something like a male version of cat woman (Sam mentally snickered at the image that brought up) - or super strength. Maybe even being able to order someone into giving him anything he wanted, all the time, like the power of suggestion or something. Yeah, Dean would definitely probably have that.

 

"Uuh, no." Dean finally answered, coughing slightly to cover up his awkwardness. "Dude- just, uh, no. And before you ask, I'm pretty damn sure I don't have powers."

 

Sam couldn't help it. He snorted.

 

The Professor just nodded again, a small amused smile playing on his lips, and excused himself from the small medical room, wheeling himself out. Sam was left with a slightly creeped out Dean who stared at him with a raised eyebrow practically shouting _'dude, creepy much?'._ Sam just shook his head in exasperation and eyed the IV bag next to his brother’s bed.

 

Dean looked over to it too, then he started pawing at his hand until he found where the needle inserted into the back of it, expertly removing it with years of experience under his belt.

 

"What are you doing, Dean?" Sam asked slowly, disapprovingly.

 

Dean didn't even look up to him as he continued to unhook the nasal cannula from his nostrils, grimacing at the tickling sensation. "Getting the hell outta here, twerp."

 

Lips tugging downwards, Sam grabbed at Dean's hands, stilling them. "You've got a badly injured shoulder, were suffering from a concussion just moments ago, _and_ you've lost tons load of blood." Dean just stared at him, lone eyebrow raised. "You're not going anywhere." Sam stubbornly clarified. "You're not."

 

Dean frowned at him, looking slightly confused. "Uh, no offence Sam, but I can't stay _here_." He said, peering at Sam in a way that said he was wondering if Sam was suffering from brain damage.

 

Lips pulling further down and thinning, Sam tightened his grip on his brother’s wrists. "Why not, Dean? You want to just leave _me_ here?"

 

Expression turning serious, Dean sighed a little as he made himself more comfortable on the bed, grimacing a bit before turning his focus back to the topic. "Sam." He said slowly, carefully. "This is an Institute for 'mutants'," the word was said with a disgusted scowl Sam couldn't help but return. "I bet you my shotgun _everybody_ here is a mutant. I'm not one." Dean paused here, turning solemn eyes on Sam. "You know that right? I'm not a mutant. I don't have any powers - and even if I did, I wouldn't have kept it secret from you, even if you never ended up with your own ones."

 

Surprised at his brother's words (but why should he be? This was Dean, the Dean Dad almost shot dead), Sam nodded his head without doubt. "I know, Dean." He said truthfully, rolling his eyes as he said the next words. "You're awesome hunter skills are just all you."

 

Dean grinned, smugness and pleasure wafting off him, making it really hard for Sam not to grin back. "Damn straight, squirt. And you remember that while you're off being all freaky with these other freaks. Remember your big brother, who’s completely, 100% powerless, but can still kick your ass, psychic or no psychic."

 

"But Dean, I'm sure there's a spot you can take. It's just like you said, man. Everything about you is completely human, but yet you could probably take down 80% of the people here!"

 

Dean growled, slapping at Sam's hands still encased around his wrists. "Don't ever say that, Sam." He warned lowly. At the confused look Sam gave him, Dean huffed in irritation and clarified. "The 'human' crap. Don't ever say that. A genetic mutation doesn't change anything - everybody has a goddamn genetic fuckup somewhere. It's why there's black people and white people and Asians, why there's freakin' girls and boys. You're just a new kind - and a cool kind too, with powers and shit. Most likely, Sam, the numbers of 'mutants' will grow with each generation. Don't give me that look - I did my research, dammit."

 

An amused snicker broke forth from Sam, who patted his brother's lap condescendingly. "My brother," he said sarcastically. "The 20th century Sherlock Holmes."

 

"You can be Watson." Dean replied without missing a beat. "But then... Watson's too cool. Maybe I should be him 'n you the geeky Holmes."

 

Not wanting to get off track (he knew Dean's tactics, thank you very much) Sam returned to frowning again. "So what?" He started to ask. "You're just going to go back to Dad? Dean, I don't know if you noticed or not, but he thinks _you're_ the mutant."

 

Dean snorted. "Dad doesn't know a damn thing about mutants. He thinks I'm a demon or something. No, no, I'll just go around flashing the Impala here and there, staying the hell away from Dad and his buddies."

 

"And hunt." Sam filled in, irritation curling around his belly.

 

"Come on, Sam." Dean sighed, suddenly looking bone weary and tired. "I can't just stop hunting and live like a civilian in the town over. You know I can't. People out there are getting hurt, and if I can help them..."

 

They both fell into silence, the tension thrumming with resignation but anticipation of what would happen next. Sam knew Dean was right - the idea of his big brother not hunting with the trunk full of weapons in the Impala just seemed foreign to him. Dean was good at hunting, almost frighteningly good at it, and Dean was doing it for all the right reasons, to help people, make sure nobody else got hurt by the same things that hurt their family. The noble cause.

 

"I'll never see you again, will I?" Sam finally blurted out, voicing his worst fear.

 

Dean's head swerved over to him, eyes landing on his own with a carefully neutral expression. "Sam, it's too dangerou---"

 

"---So you're just going to go riding off into the sunset, and I'll be left here with strangers that don't know the first thing about Latin or silver rounds or even _salt_." Sam spit out, anger finally breaking through to the surface. "And just like every other time you or Dad went off on a freakin' hunt, I'll be left behind wondering if both of you are lying in a ditch somewhere _dying_! Or even worse!"

 

"No, Sam---"

 

"---And!" Sam interrupted swiftly again, not letting Dean get a word in edgewise. "What the hell are you going to do? You can't hunt alone, Dean - and you can't get a partner too. You know Dad! And you know hunters! The moment Dad lets loose he thinks you're a monster that's grabbed me, the whole hunting community will track you down like hounds and kill you!"

 

"Which is why I can't stay here, Sam." Dean promptly replied, voice confident and decided. "It's why I need to get the Impala the hell away from here, and myself. What do you think Dad and the other's'll do if they find out 'bout this place, Sam?" Sam didn't have to answer - both of them knew what would happen, and it wouldn't be pretty. "And this is a big place, just salt the windows and all the doors stealthily and it should be cool. Besides, if a werewolf or something tries anything, I'm sure one of the kids can hold them off long enough with their freaky powers until you shoot it with silver."

 

Sam snorted, suddenly remembering how Storm and Wolverine's faces had looked when he'd held the latter at gunpoint. "You think they'll let me keep a few weapons, Dean? I'll be lucky if I get to keep my favourite knife."

 

"You'll have your weapons." Dean said, eyes flashing at Sam's words. "I'm not leaving you here alone without protection."

 

"Then don't."

 

Dean's opened his mouth, but stopped, running a hand through his hair in thinly veiled despair. "Sam..." Dean sighed. "It was a good idea, coming here. And I know you're worried, Sam - you know I'd never leave you behind if I didn't have to. Look, I'll... I'll find a way to drop you a message, every now and then. And I'm going to have to get rid of my phone and most of the cards and ID since Dad knows them all." Dean brightened up, looking at Sam with a sincere smile as he got an idea. "Sam, you get a phone - I'll get you a phone - and I can call you now and then. I'll just memorise the number, then I can call you from whatever phone I'm using since I'll probably have to change them on a weekly basis. And just to make sure I haven't been compromised, you have to answer saying 'Fred's establishment for adult entertainment. Today, our greatest offer is'--"

 

Sam groaned, disgusted at the idea as Dean broke out into snickers. "And if you don't call?" He said instead, wanting to iron out the kinks but liking the idea better than total abandonment. "If I don't hear from you for too long? You know I'll leave this place in a heartbeat and hunt you down, Dean."

 

Dean grinned, dismissing Sam's worries flippantly. "No you won't." He said confidently. "I'm telling the old man to keep you under lock and key. Gonna say Dad's a professional, and not mention what _kind_ of professional he is. That'll keep him watching you like a hawk." Dean paused, staring at the large black window at the other side of the room contemplating. "Dude, I bet that's his power. Bird’s eye view. Everywhere. Any time."

 

If that wasn't a disturbing thought, Sam didn't know what was. "One of them can control the _weather_." He told Dean, nodding his head wisely at the disbelieving look. "And another has these honest to god metal claws that come out of his knuckles, Dean. Like, like, that tiger claw in that Bruce Lee movie. And he calls himself Wolverine."

 

Dean all but laughed at that. "Well make sure to not tell him what we do to his cousins." He grinned. "The metal wouldn't happen to be silver by any chance would it?"

 

The younger brother shrugged. "Doesn't look like it. I'm a bit worried that any of these people could have powers a bit too similar to, say, a shapeshifter. Can't exactly go slicing them with silver to see if they burn."

 

"Don't worry." Dean said reassuringly. "I really doubt it. Besides, all things evil act evil, and I really doubt any of these guys are gonna hulk out and eat someone if they haven't already. The fact that there isn't even one protective sigil anywhere just goes to show they're as normal as can be."

 

"Whatever." Sam said petulantly, watching as Dean finally returned his attention to taking off the IV from the back of his hand.

 

Shuffling to the side of the bed, Dean swung his legs down, carefully placing them on the floor in a way that reminded Sam that Dean had sprained his left ankle too. But Dean didn't try to stand, instead scowling down at the hospital scrubs he'd somehow been changed into and pushing Sam off the bed with a shove. "Enough of the touchy feely crap, man. Find me my clothes."

 

Obediently, Sam turned to search for his brother's trademark clothes. He found them in a heap on the floor, bloody beyond recognition, obviously in no state to be worn. Picking them up, he wondered what a psychiatrist would say if he knew seeing his brother's blood barely phased him, but considering Sam was by all means out of the hunting life now, it didn't seem to matter. What was that saying? Out of the frying pan, into the fire? At the very least he'd had the tools to protect himself as a hunter. What did he know about mutants? What did he have other than visions that were nightmare worthy and the ability to move things with his mind at random moments?

 

Maybe it _was_ better for Dean not to be around him. After all, hadn't he decided not to let Dean pay for his mistakes any more? Maybe this was the only way, for them to separate, because it made a hell of a lot of sense when mom had died because of him too. And if Sam had to be left behind just to keep his Dad and brother safe, then by God he'd do it.

 

"A week." He said finally, holding Dean's clothes up to gain his brother's attention. Dean turned to look at him, green eyes first landing on Sam before looking down to his clothes, grabbing them and holding them apart with a scowl directed at the large blood stains. "You have to stay a week until I'm sure you're fit to even drive, much less avoid the hunting community. Are you going to call Pastor Jim, Uncle Bobby or even Caleb?"

 

Dean snorted his reply as he briskly manoeuvred his way into his jeans, wincing as the movements jarred his injuries. "Dude, Dad's probably called them first. Too easy."

 

"So you're just going to go on your way, lone wolf a hundred percent."

 

Dean noted his little brother's tone, a tone that glaringly screamed that he wasn't all too impressed with what he was hearing. Shooting a cocky grin at his brother, Dean grabbed his shirt from the jumbled mess of his clothes, wondering if he had any spare (clean) clothes in the Impala's trunk. The thought brought him up short, left hand sticking inside the shirt's arm while his head stayed halfway through the neck.

 

"Dude," he carefully started. "Where's my baby?"

 

Sam's face turned into a little bitch face, still mild considering how potent he could make the expression go, huffing to himself a bit. "I hid it in some forest on the city's outskirts."

 

Shucking his head and neck through the damn neck collar of his shirt, Dean moved his right arm through another hole, finally tugging the shirt down to cover his chest. "You hid my car _far away_ in some place in _New York_? Sam, do you know what they do to beauties like that? They _defile_ it! Do unspeakable, atrocious, Shakespeare worthy tragical _things_ to it."

 

Again, Sam didn't seem impressed - little bitch _was_ a little bitch after all - causing Dean to throw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "I have to _walk_ all the way to who knows where for my _car_!"

 

"You can't," Sam finally piped up, eyes going wide and eyebrows climbing his forehead as a thought suddenly struck him. "Dean, if you drive the Impala, Dad will find you faster than you found Lilly Anderson back at that high school."

 

A stupid looking grin crossed Dean's face, eyes tracking upwards and glazing as memory overtook him. "Mmm, Lilly. I remember her - took me 1 minute and 34 seconds to get her in that janitor's closet. Best damn record."

 

"You. Can't. Drive. The. Impala." Sam gritted out, teeth grating together in irritation. "Dad will find you. Caleb will find you. Hell, every hunter and their dog will find you."

 

But Dean was already shaking his head, bending down carefully to put his shoes on. "I'm not leaving the Impala, Sammy." He said, voice distracted as he quickly decided bending down wouldn't be such a great idea. Sitting back on the bed, he swung his legs up until he wouldn't have to bend in half to do his shoes up, wincing as the wounds pulled on his back. "I doubt Dad would think I'm stupid enough to carry on driving it since he taught us to ditch cars faster than you ditch hobbies whenever we're going underground."

 

With his boots finally tied and all his clothes on, Dean stood up and moved to his little brother, ruffling the shaggy hair with a hand. "Look, I'll stay the week - even if Captain Picard and his weird mutant congregation decide they don't want a poor, little, non-mutant bad ass in their presence. Should be a motel near here anyway, right?"

 

Sam opened his mouth to reply, not sure what exactly he was going to say but certain it was going to be something good when a new voice interrupted him. "That won't be necessary, Mr. Winchester."

 

Turning around to face the direction of the voice, the two brothers gaped as a man covered in blue fur came in, wearing glasses (glasses!) and a lab coat of all things. Dean shoved Sam behind him, hands tightened into fists and up in front of him before the expression on the newcomer's face actually got through to him.

 

The guy was smiling.

 

Okay, so bad guys tended to smile too - nothing new there - but not bad guys that looked barely human. And Sam was hissing something behind him, sounding irritated and embarrassed with a touch of little brother whininess, which probably all translated too 'Dean, not a monster, just something I completely forgot to tell you about' but went more along the lines of 'God, Dean, stop embarrassing me and move! Yeah, it's my fault for not telling you that some mutants don't look human, but that doesn't give you the right to embarrass me for the rest of my life!'

 

Dean stared, cataloguing everything he could while he could still pass it off as a first impression, taking note of the fur, the fingers, the face and feet. The man looked like a primate, or like a civilised ape like cartoons sometimes did, but had the air of someone kind and slightly scholarly about him. For one, he just stood there and calmly waited till Dean took his fill, which totally brought him up a few points in Dean's book. But still. Blue.

 

"The fuck?"

 

Sam made a pissy little bitch sound behind him, one arm going round Dean's body and fisting the shirt right above his heart in some strange attempt to move and protect Dean. Stupid little brother. Kid had a stubborn streak worse than Dad's.

 

"Ah, Mr. Winchester," the blue furred man greeted, smiling at them both kindly. "I have to thank you for not attacking or screaming at me. I realise this must be strange for the both of you, but you have nothing to fear. My name is Dr. Hank, and I too, am a mutant. Just like you, Samuel."

 

"Christo." Dean blurted out, right along the same time Sam petulantly muttered "My name's Sam," behind him. The blue furred man - Hank, and what kind of an evil son of a bitch called himself Hank? - cocked his head to the side, eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. Dean didn't really know what he expected to happen anyway, since he'd never run into a demon before, but Dad and Bobby had said they'd flinch in the name of God and their eyes would turn black or something.

 

But blue guy was still... blue.

 

"I thought mutants 'n shit had like, powers, not..." Dean waved his hands around, trying to come up with a word to explain the guy's look. Sam dug his bony fingers into Dean's back, causing the older brother to wince and bite the inside of his cheek. "Maybe he's like, a mutant chubacabra or something." He hissed to his little brother, slapping a hand that looked like it was going to punch him in the kidney. "God dammit Sam!"

 

"The X-gene sometimes causes changes in one's physical appearance." The blue Dr. Hank answered, despite Dean not having technically spoken to him. "Unfortunately, mine is among the more... Dramatic changes."

 

No shit. Guy was freaking blue.

 

"However, I assure you, you have nothing to fear. This look," and he swept a hand over himself, like a bad magician going 'look, look, nothing here so far right?' before carrying on. "This look has given me a few other abilities too, so all's fair in love and war, right?-"

 

Dean stared at the man, taking note of the Doctor's bare feet and how the toes looked just like one's hands. If he remembered correctly, monkeys could use their feet just like hands, and sure the doctor didn't look like he had a tail but what the hell, it might be covered underneath that lab coat.

 

Hank seemed even more pleased by Dean's observations - Dean couldn't help but dimly feel a bit sorry for the guy, he was probably used to people screaming whenever they saw him - and shuffled over to one of the machines that had been hooked up to Dean. "You can stay here however long you wish, Mr. Winchester," the doctor said, addressing Dean in particular. "The fact you've neither attempted to hurt me nor screamed in fear goes to show we'll have no problem here. But I must warn you, some others are very similar in... Mutation, shall we say, as I am. Not all of us have the simple luck to suddenly be able to use a nifty power with no side effects."

 

Finally settling on a nod - what else was he supposed to do, besides play nice then hit the books later on in search of a furry blue, English speaking, Medical diploma holding, monster? - Dean settled a hand on Sam's shoulder, an unconscious gesture of both safety and possessiveness. _No matter what you all have, he's mine._ "Thanks, I guess. Is there anything else you should probably warn me about? Like to watch out for moving staircases?"

 

The foot that stomped on his toes was painful, sure, but _so_ worth it.

 

The doctor laughed, sounding genuinely surprised by the reference to Harry Potter and pleased with it. "Oh no, nothing like that here, though I'm sure the Professor would have loved to have such." He pushed up the drooping glasses on the bridge of his nose, flicking through some papers that made him look all doctor-y. "I'm glad to see you're very open about all this, Dean. May I call you Dean?” Dean nodded with a shrug. “Thank you. The only thing I can think of to immediately inform you of is the need for secrecy here, to ensure everyone's safety. As such, we use code names, referring to each other as such, though I thought it would only make myself seem more suspicious if I were to introduce myself using my codename: Beast.” At the look both brothers gave him, Hank laughed. “Yes, yes, I know, but that is the way of things. Unfortunately, I realise this must all be so very new. Just how much are you aware of the mutant gene?"

 

Considering every piece of information they had was from Sam's mad hacking skills and Dean flashing a few high security fake badges, not that much. But then again, everything they knew, the government did. And the government didn't know that much. Sam fidgeted next to him, just bursting at the seams to go into a long tirade of everything they knew, and Dean just let him at it.

 

"We only really know that there's a difference in a person's genetic makeup that causes the powers, and that everybody with it gets something different every single time. This is an institute made by a Professor Charles Xavier that on the outside is for 'gifted children'," the speech quotes could practically be seen floating in the air, "but is actually the Professor making a place for mutants of all age, race and ability to converge in hopes of lessening possible bad case scenario's.” Doctor Hank nodded, looking slightly impressed by their knowledge, but before he could speak up, Sam continued on like the unstoppable force of nature he was. “And the government knows about mutants, but so far only very little and mostly thinks little of them of them until they have hard proof – plus this place is on their watch list. A yellow alert is out on the so called ' _brotherhood of mutants_ ', but the government is attempting to find more information on that before they upgrade it to an orange, and if they think it to be too much of a national threat, then red.”

 

_That_ got Hank's surprise, from the very moment the word 'government' was mentioned, Hank's eyebrows (or at least where Dean thought his eyebrows were) climbed steadily higher up his forehead, until that whole area of his face just looked... blue. “The government?” The strange looking man repeated, sounding peculiar and a bit faint. “How did you-? … Do I want to know?”

 

Smart man. Plausible deniability was a beautiful thing if you knew how to use it. Dean sharply grinned at the man, deciding to bump him up a few points in his 'maybe not a monster' list, but he was still going to smuggle some holy water into the man's drink as soon as he could. “Nope.”

 

Sam's face was twisted into an unhappy frown – probably going all 'woe is me' about hacking national intelligence buildings and all their digital software. Dean hadn't even _been_ the one to suggest it, everything had been all Sam's idea, but _nooo_ , kid still had to feel all _guilty_ about it. The blue man put down his clipboard of papers, humming to himself with a knowing look in his eyes, turning around to start rummaging about in a cupboard full of medicine for something. He took out a small blue bottle, looked at it and nodded decisively, before surprising the hell out of Dean by throwing it across the room at him. Dean caught it – of course he did, who did you take him for? - and stared down at the bottle for a bit before putting it away in one of his pockets. Even if he didn't plan on taking any of them, he knew enough of medicine to recognise it for some heavy duty painkillers, and stuff like that was always good for the road.

 

“So Dean can stay here? For the week? Or more if he needs it?” Sam asked eagerly, face smoothing out into an earnest expression.

 

Hank nodded, smiling at them warmly. “Yes, of course. Our door is always opened for Dean.”

 

And didn't that sound nice? A door always open for Dean. Except the one time he might finally get it is when it'd be too dangerous to be seen _around it_. The two brothers watched as the doctor bid them goodbye, telling them someone would come in shortly to lead them to a room, and watched him leave. Then they looked at each other, Sam's expression victorious, Dean's amused, except for when something Sam had said early made a return to his brain.

 

“So you said something about a woman controlling the weather? She better be damn hot.”


	2. Chapter 2

One of the hallways in the mansion was long. Sure, they were all long, but this one was long and wide, with large arcs of windows lining a side presenting a gateway to the grounds. The opposite wall was littered with art that looked priceless, vases and small sculptures Dean had spent a brief stage when he was fourteen learning how to forge, knowing by a glance they numbered four digits in the currency margin - more than enough to feed Sammy on the long hunts John took.

 

To be honest, it had taken him some time to realise what this meant. Xavier's School for Gifted Children, no matter how much of an understatement the _'Gifted Children_ ' was, could give Sam everything Dean wished for his little brother, everything he knew Sam wished for himself, and everything they both knew he wouldn't have gotten anywhere else. Dean still wanted to believe in their Dad's promise - _"When we get the sonuvabitch Demon, we'll settle down somewhere nice, with a white fence, and get your brother a dog."_ \- still wanted to hold on to the admittedly less clear memories he had of his Dad before mom died, shouting at him from behind a fence along with other parents, a huge smile on his face as Dean batted a ball out of the park, childish joy at making his father proud. And to an extent, he still did - believed it all, still thought it was probably a possibility, not yet off the table - even with the sudden, drastic change in their set-up.

 

Because now Dad thought he was a monster, and Sam needed to be saved.

 

Dean didn't have much to say to that.

 

After Hank had left, a young adult wearing red sunglasses had come in, introducing himself as Cyclops, saying he'd lead them to their room. Sam said the guy was one of the people who'd first come out when Sam had parked outside their mansion, not to mention dragged Dean's passed out ass into the clinic, which was damn embarrassing. Apparently though, as Cyclops led them through multiple hallways to their room, it turned out whoever had arranged it was clever enough to know Dean wasn't going to let Sam out of his sight for at least the first four days, or maybe it had been Sam's glower when Hank had first made the mistake of saying room in the plural tense, quickly correcting himself with a cough and nothing more. 

. . .

 

They hadn't seen the old bald guy in the wheelchair again, for which Dean was just plain ol' grateful as fuck for, because something about that man just creeped the hell out of him, made him want to hide his face from sight, leave the room, make himself as small as possible and hide the soft, vulnerably, parts of his body. It was probably just logic, making Dean feel that, because the man was the head of a whole institute of mutants, was in control, the leader of a whole rainbow of powers from one extreme to the other. Logically, that meant the Captain Picard lookalike was stronger than them all. And that amount of power was just...

 

… Or maybe it was biological? Something in Dean, a six sense, rattling his self preservation instinct, something as primal and base and integrated in _all_ animals telling him that this was a predator, and he was the prey. Sometimes, Dean felt the same thing on a hunt, and he'd grown to trust it as impeccably as John had always lectured him to do.

 

_"Son, sometimes there're going to be things you don't understand, that don't make sense, don't compute, but make something in you just scream at you to run and never look back. And when that happens, don't think - just do."_

 

Outside the large windows, in the green of the grass, a bunch of kids stood about, all of different ages and ethnicity. Dean peered out of the window, watching Sam hesitantly trot over the perfectly mowed grass towards them, in that stage of growth where you could see that he was sprouting, but was still a boy, still young and barely a teenager. They were all being supervised by a darkly coloured woman with startling white hair, respected and maybe even awed a little by those around her with the way the kids stayed close.

 

Dean watched, too far away to see the movement of lips, but too protective to not witness the exchange between his little brother and the kids. It was always dangerous, that first touch with others, knowing just how life was going to be at this place all depended on the first impression a stranger or group of strangers got. And you couldn't control it, couldn't control the impression their brain decided to stick too, not really, not unless you went out of your way to _imprint_ one on them, like Dean liked to do. Act like a cool douche bag from the start, get treated like one. Sam always started out uncertain, portraying nothing but _'New kid! New kid!'_ at every turn, leaving it to his judger’s to make of him what they will.

 

Tucked all the way in the mansion, so far away but not too far if he broke the window and hopped out, Dean could see one of the boys slowly falling into the negative territory, not quite there but a risk all the same. It wasn't until one of the girls, a little petite blonde thing with bounce, enthusiastically clapped Sam on the shoulder and ushered him in did the tension break, the risk unfounded, the boy - some well kept, normal looking kid with broad shoulders - deciding to follow suit with the general consensus, face breaking out into a welcoming grin. Which was all great and all, because that meant Sam had been accepted. If worst came to worst - i.e. Whatever other kids were around hated Sam's guts - he still had a group to come back too.

 

Snorting to himself in morbid amusement, Dean rasped the window with his knuckles, knocking once, twice, thrice, before moving on down the hallway, the corridor, wondering absently what the difference between the two terms even _was_. He'd been in their shared room - two beds, at the opposite sides of the room - proofing it up of anything and everything he knew after being told it'd be Sam's and whatever room-mate he'd get after Dean left. He'd worked hard to make everything barely noticeable, hidden the salt underneath the carpet, duct taped it over the window sill, used the free Wi-Fi to get those symbols Dad and Bobby seemed so fond off. He'd made little crooks and nanny's for Sam to hide things in: a safe behind one of the paintings for half of his finance, a slot inside the bed's frame for the other, a false bottom in the drawer to hide the weapons (three knives, and a single, government issue glock), and another for the protections (three bags of salt - enough to circle the room -, cats eye shells, and a small notepad full of names and numbers of Dad's friends - for Sam, and only for Sam). He'd only just finished about a few minutes ago, and so had decided to scope the place out, see where security was lacking, see if whether the government had a right to be wary or not, try and get a feel for the place.

 

But before that; food.

 

Sunglasses Cyclops had told them both where to get the grub, said it was open at all times except after 10, and Dean couldn't help but wonder just how rich the bald Professor was to be able to afford taking care of a bunch of kids with powers _and_ hire staff always on call till night. Plus it didn't make sense, where was the guy getting all his funding from? It couldn't all be from his own personal fortune or whatever, that would just be nuts. And didn't Sunglasses dude say the mess hall was somewhere around here?

 

He turned a corner, then another, caught a parting glimpse of something sleek and blue disappearing in a puff of clouds, wanted to brandish his knife and stab it, held himself back by the bare scruffs, and turned another corner. The smell hit him first, sweet glorious food, scents upon scents of a bunch of different things wafting over to him. Then he saw the actual 'mess', and realised with some thought of irony that he should've seen it coming.

 

Damn room looked like it came out of a Tudor's video.

 

Right smack down in the middle was a long dining table, huge in how it filled three quarters of the room, covered by a white table cloth and the most delicate dishes and glasses Dean had ever seen. He figured they were the ever elusive china he'd always heard about, knew about, even seen on TV, sure, but had never actually seen in person, the glasses tall and splendour right next to the dishes, just waiting to be used by people with six digit paydays. Like hell he was going to eat here, just- no. God no. So, Dean spun on his heels and left, walking a few steps again until another door greeted him. 

 

The smell of food was stronger here, more enticing, and Dean grinned impishly to himself, recognising the hubbub and noise inside to be that of a kitchen. A glance at his watch confirmed it, the kitchen staff just starting to prepare for lunch - both Sam and Dean had missed breakfast, too busy as they were hashing things out the way only brothers could (i.e. wrestling). He opened the door slowly, not too willing to push it wide and smack someone carrying boiling soup or something on the other side. His caution paid off, someone came all but flying past the just opened door with a steaming bowl of who knew what, another shouting at a third to " _check the potatoes! check the damn potatoes!_ " Entering the room and closing the door shut, Dean took a moment to watch everybody rushing about, tracking their movements, words, actions, trying to see if anyone of them were like Sam. He couldn't tell, wondered for a moment why none of them were using some weird cutting power to do the carrots, or cheat and make the temperature of that chicken broth just _right_ , and then he shrugged and instead moved further in, tapping the shoulder of a motherly woman who looked to be in charge of things.

 

She turned around, eyebrows burrowed together, relaxing and going up towards her hairline once she noticed Dean, probably not a member of her team as she'd been expecting. "Anything I can help you with?"

 

Cranking up the charm, Dean grinned roguishly at her. "I'm sorry, I sort of missed breakfast this morning, both me and my kid brother, so I was wondering if you had anything? I'm willing to pitch in with the lunch efforts."

 

She cocked an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms over her ample chest, and looked him up and down in a quick study. She didn't seem impressed by what she saw - a normal reaction, Dean was used to being underestimated everywhere - but surprised him by not dismissing him immediately. "You good with a knife?"

 

Somebody made a horrified noise next to them, a younger woman with an equally motherly disposition about her. "Laura, you can't be serious! That's child labour!"

 

Dean snorted, waving off her concern and wondering for a split moment just how bad he looked to be mistaken for a child. He hadn't been thought a minor since he was fourteen. "I'm nineteen," he said, wanting to tack on _lady_ at the end but holding back at the last minute. He liked these sort of women, kind but stern, willing to turn a blind eye if only to help a kid because they had ones of their own. Maybe it had to do with his own mom - he wasn't too stupid to not see the plausibility of it - but he just didn't care. "And I'm _very_ good with a knife."

 

Laura, eyebrow still raised, jerked her head to a cutting board with a bucket full of tomatoes on top, a gleaming knife resting right next to it. He went over, aware of practically everyone in the kitchen watching, washed the tomatoes in the sink next to the cutting board, and one by one bore into them with the knife like the star of a Japanese cook show.

 

Thank god he'd had worked at the Dragon Palace when he was sixteen, getting yelled at in Japanese while boiling sparks of oil singed his arms and chest. Even if he didn't appreciate how every time he passed Boston his fingers ached.

 

Laura grinned over at the other woman - Jenny? - and barked at her crew to get back to work. Dean finished off the tomatoes.

. . .

 

As the sun struggled to reach midway in the April sky, and Samuel Winchester became acquainted with the other mutants his age, Charles moved himself to stand next to Storm, watching the group converse with the energy of teenagers. He couldn't deny his immense curiosity with the Winchester brothers, nor even differentiate _which_ of the two he was more enamoured with, but at that current moment, his focus was fastened onto the younger of the two, watching as Kitty pulled Sam towards her and introduced him to the rest of the group. Jean had come with him, curious despite herself, wanting to watch and take part in the customary test of skills they always put a new student through to grasp how far along they were with their mutation. 

 

The mere fact that Samuel Winchester seemed to have _two_ abilities rather than the customary one was even more surprising than usual – visions of the near future _and_ telekinesis? Practically unheard of, save for Jean herself with her telekinesis _and_ telepathy. But the mere fact that the new fourteen year old had telekinesis and precognition, of all powers, was enough to pique almost all of the older X-Men's attention. They needed to quickly determine just how far Sam's potential could go, whether or not the strain of both psionic powers would force the young boy to buckle, or worse. If Sam ended up going the same road as Jean and himself had done, it could end horribly for everybody, and Charles wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he failed the boy.

 

Jean walked off towards the main building, coming back moments later with the training obstacles Logan and Scott favoured when training the kids. She placed them around at different intervals, spacing out the items across the field in terms of size, from lightest to heaviest, then returned back to stand next to Charles with a small smile.

 

“I wonder how good he is at it.” She mused, watching as Storm led Sam towards them with Kitty and the gang watching on in teenage curiosity. “Have you caught any of his thoughts?”

 

Charles chuckled in good nature. “Ah, but listening in on another's thoughts is quite rude, Jean.” He admonished, not putting too much heat into it because he was a hypocrite. “And the one time I tried I was quite... Overtaken, for lack of a better word. He is a very intelligent young man.” A very intelligent young man that _thought_ far too much with very little structure to his thinking. It was chaos in there, pure and simple, an explosion of thousands of different topics that never reached the end before being cut off and overtaken by another. Samuel's mental process jumped from one train track to another, from the most obscure and confusing to the simple worries of a young teenager, and Charles had all but forced the door closed on _that_ brain.

 

“Alright,” Jean huffed, reading between the lines and accepting Charles advice. Neither of them enjoyed violating anybody's sanctuary, despite it sometimes being a necessary part to the safety of those already in the mansion with the worries and threats looming in the horizon against mutant kind, yet sometimes neither of them could resist the temptation to simply take a peak for curiosity’s sake. As if reading his mind, Jean laughed under her breath. “They do say curiosity killed the cat, Professor.”

 

He only smiled fondly in response, nodding in thanks to Storm as she brought the youngest Winchester to them. “Hello, Samuel.” He greeted, extending a hand to shake. “I hope you don't mind if we borrow some of your time for this. It is quite important.”

 

Samuel shook the offered hand, strong and lacking in the self consciousness so common in teens, piquing Charles interest again right from the start. “Please, call me Sam. And it's OK, I get why you want to see how much I can do with the telekinesis thing.”

 

A _very_ intelligent young man, with a level of maturity so very rarely seen. Charles continued smiling anyway, waving his hands towards the different objects Jean had strewn about around the mansion's grounds. From the beginning was a football, and from there on varied in length and weight until finally the last item was Nightcrawler himself, looking awkward and slightly afraid of his participation. Charles shook his head in bewilderment at Jean, wondering how she'd coerced the young mutant to join in the test, though it was a wonderful idea. If worst came to worst, Kurt could always teleport himself to safety, which was far different than what others could do, thus limiting the possibility of injury to a bare minimum.

 

“Very well, Sam. Though we must find you a codename for you to use.” He conceded, amused by Sam's reaction to Kurt. Besides the small widening of his eyes and uncomfortable shift of his feet, Sam showed no other outward signs of his surprise, perhaps less affected then he would have been had he not already met Hank. “As you can see, there are multiple objects – and Nightcrawler – displayed in front of you. Try to start from the football and work your way up to Nightcrawler.” Kurt waved, receiving a surprised look and an enthusiastic wave back from Sam. Charles warmed at the display of acceptance, thinking Sam would make a great addition to the team if for nothing else but that, and carried on. “Please, don't hurt yourself with the strain and only do what you feel comfortable. This is in no way an admittance test, just something for us to gauge on what level you are and how best to proceed in your training.”

 

“Training?” Sam parroted, turning to look at Charles with a question.

 

He nodded, waving a hand at himself and Jean. “Yes. Here, we have teachers of different abilities to try and teach young mutants such as yourself how best to control their ability. You've already met Storm and know of her ability, yes?” Sam nodded. “Jean here and I are both telepath's – mind readers, if you will – yet Jean is also a telekinetic, just like you. She'll be your primary mentor in this particular field of your ability. Unfortunately, we do not have any experience with anybody of precognition abilities, though if what you've told us is true, there is very little we could have done for you in that aspect anyway.”

 

Sam nodded, massaging at his temple in a way that spoke of familiarity. Charles felt a pang for the boy, already seeing the strain of his abilities affecting a person so young. They'd all been given the summary of the fourteen year old's ability – the ability to move things with his mind and the random flashes of the future, visions mostly, that were never pleasant – and how it usually left Sam with a fierce migraine and even a dangerous nose bleed. Maybe they could teach him relaxing techniques, like meditation, and get him on herbal teas that would soothe the mind. He'd have to speak more in depth with Hank on that.

 

“Okay.” Sam answered, turning to face the objects. He breathed in deeply, relaxing his muscles on the exhale, shaking his limbs to loosen himself up. Then he closed his eyes for a short moment, centering his mind, and Charles could feel the loud din of words and thoughts meshed together into an undecipherable mess quieten down into a veritable silence. He marvelled at the fourteen year old's ability to control his thoughts, to _silence_ them, and smiled wildly as the first item – the football – propelled backwards across the field with no one around to have touched it. Sam sighed, scratching at his neck in a sheepish gesture and shrugged awkwardly. “Uh, guess that was too strong.”

 

They all encouraged him to continue, to move on to the next objects, to the heavier ones, and watched as Sam easily moved the next three with some amount of focus. The fourth had him frowning, but it also moved, slowly meeting the ground next to the football three feet away from its original position, and the fifth had Sam clenching his fists. Charles would have liked to see Sam attempt the sixth – a piano Jean must have used her own abilities to bring – but decided the traces of sweat that had broken out on the boy's forehead was a sign that they should stop. Interestingly enough, Kurt was the eighth, meaning only a piano and an ornate bookshelf were the only things separating Sam from all but being able to move a being.

 

Remarkable.

 

“I must say, Sam, you have an incredibly amount of talent at this. When did you first realise you could move objects with your mind?”

 

Grinning in satisfaction, Sam shrugged a bit. “The first time was when I was ten. I don't really remember it since I was sick, but Dean says I really wanted a bottle of water that was across the room, but I was too tired to say it, and next thing he knew I had it in my hand and was drinking it.”

 

Curious as he was about the brothers, this was a perfect time to catch some perspective on them. “And how did he react to it? You being able to do something like that?”

 

Another shrug. “He took away my water bottle, put it back where it was, then told me to do it again.” _'After throwing holy water on me, testing silver, rock salt and iron, and raiding Dad's journal for the exorcism in it.'_

 

Trading pointed looks with Jean, Charles hummed in an affirmative. “How about your parents, Sam? And you were very good with the objects today; surely you must have practised when you could?”

 

A scowl marred the young teens face, making Sam look older than his mere fourteen years. “Dad doesn't know. And he won't. I didn't want to do anything at the start, thought it'd bring nothing but trouble, but Dean kept pushing me until I'd snap and something would explode. After that, I just did it to make sure I never accidentally hurt someone just because I was angry, but then somehow that went to practising just to make sure I could _help_ , you know? Make the best of a bad situation.”

 

Ah, there it was, the self-loathing of his talents Storm had mentioned. Samuel saw nothing good in his abilities, only the _bad_ , just like every mutant did when they first realized their ability. But Charles had a feeling it was linked in to the father, and perhaps even whatever life the Winchester family led. Surely they didn't live in a normal suburbia, not with the injuries the older brother Dean had come in with, and especially not with the knowledge of firearms and stealth tactics both Wolverine and Storm had informed him Sam seemed capable off. But he'd dug enough for the day, and any more questions would force Samuel to close up like he was already thinking to do.

 

Looking at his watch, he realised lunch was only moments away, a perfect ending to wrap this up. “Hmm, be as it may, you were quite impressive today.” Sam smiled, lighting up from the inside with the praise – a tell, Charles wondered just how little praise the boy usually got – and blushed. “Lunch will be due in a few minutes. Kitty, why don't you show Sam here where the mess hall is?”

 

As the young energetic Kitty led Sam away towards the mansion, Charles sighed and turned to face an uncharacteristically silent Storm. “You're worried about him, aren't you?”

 

Ororo ran a hand through her long white hair, tugging at the ends loosely in distraction. “I...” She began, hesitating for a moment before clearing her throat. “There is just... Something strange, about that child. About him and his brother.”

 

“What... Do you mean?” Jean asked, confused but wary all the same. They'd all grown to trust Storm's instincts, if for nothing more than the mere fact they were _always_ right.

 

But she shook her head instead, trying to search for the right words to explain herself. “They feel... _Wrong_. There is something very... troubling... about them both.” A heavy sigh, a resigned look coming across her beautiful face. “My people would say they are cursed because of this... _sense_. Both of them. Evil hangs off them in a... great amount.”

 

“I'm very... interested, for lack of a better word, in the two.” Charles admitted, undecided on how to take Ororo's worrying words. “Right now, the greater mystery surrounds the older brother, Dean. Not only have we yet to know _why_ he was injured as he was, but...”

 

“You tried to get a reading on him, didn't you Professor?” Jean finished off knowingly, a small smile playing on her lips.

 

Chagrined as to be so easily understood, Charles nodded. “I did, unfortunately, and I came up short. Perhaps it has something to do with your... instincts, Storm.”

 

“I'm not certain I follow, Professor.” Ororo admitted, watching as the group of children finally disappeared into the mansion. “What happened when you tried to... get a read on him?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Jean raised her eyebrows at him as Ororo turned to look at him. “Explain.” They both said, waving a hand for further clarification together.

 

Charles chuckled, amused despite himself at the mirror image. Both beautiful women with deadly powers that could take on whole armies with ease. Heavens, was he glad they were on his side. “I believe Dean is a mutant with abilities of, at the very least anyway, to block us telepaths, but just doesn't realise it.” He went on to explain how he'd tried to find out what exactly had caused the injury – along with whether Dean would be a threat to any of the other mutants on campus – by reading his mind, and had been rewarded by hitting a block that threw him back to his own. He'd tried again, only to the same results, and had begged off the third attempt due to the uncanny perception of something _wrong_. “Dean will be staying with us for only a week, but afterwards, I believe I might send Logan after him to keep an eye on him...”

 

“You fear for the worst, don't you, Professor?” The dark skinned woman said knowingly.

 

Sighing, Charles nodded. “The X-gene is genetics, and usually among siblings. If Samuel is any indication of what the Winchester's version of the mutation is – and that power, my, did you see the boy? - then it's only plausible Dean may have something far stronger than a simple mental block. Something like that... It could end horribly for everyone involved, especially him.”

 

“I'll... try and keep an open mind on him during lunch.” Jean offered, eyebrows furrowed together in thought. “Maybe he'll ease up on it when he's distracted, or relaxed. Though he has to be a mutant if he can keep us both out.”

 

Charles nodded, looking at his watch just in time to realise lunch was right that moment, and turned his wheelchair to face the direction of the mansion. “Knowing Hank, he's saved a sample of Dean's blood in the off chance case I might develop an interest in it. Hopefully, that might shed some answers to this mystery.”

 

It was worth a chance.

. . .

 

Dean's kitchen endeavour ended up with him lugging the lion's share of the food he'd helped with, and stuffing much of it down Sam's never-ending stomach. Then Laura and Jennifer tag teamed him and forced a promise out of him to attend lunch, despite the fact both of them just ate - that, and a promise he better get some damn pie, at the very least - so a few hours later he was sitting at the long dining table keeping his hands the hell away from the delicate china. Because Dean? Dean was a lover _and_ a fighter, and the only delicate thing he'd held in his life with any amount of success in it was his kid brother, who sat next to him with a regal expression, like if he did this freaking long-as-all-hell dining table thing everyday.

 

Sam grinned over at him, as if reading his expression, but most likely just reading his scowl. "Two words: Tara's parents."

 

Oh. _Oh._ Horror struck Dean's face, forcing him to scrunch up as he turned a glare on his grinning brother. "You did _not_ have dinner with my date's parents."

 

Sam just grinned harder, the two of them speaking low to each other as others started to trickle in, some kids waving at Sam and looking at Dean strangely, while others looked at them both strangely. The Professor came from another door, wheeling himself in with a remote of sorts to the grand spectacle of everyone witnessing, which just reinforced Dean's suspicion that the guy was really a dick or something. A dick with DEFCON one superpower. No wonder why the government was secretly shitting itself. "Mrs. Thompson gave me peach cobbler." Sam boasted, dimples shining in both cheeks. "And Mr. Thompson wouldn't stop giving me career advice."

 

Dean tried, he really tried, but, "Who?"

 

The instant bitchface accompanied by a huff of expelled air was his response. "Tara's _parents_. God, Dean. Do you even remember Tara? Or did you just guess who she was because she was female?"

 

Ouch, busted. It's not his fault all his relationships with females his own age ended in a roll in the hay, and besides, he'd figured out who she was about twenty five seconds ago. "Bendy chick! I remember her. Thought it was cute how much you loved your big brother." He slapped Sam's back with far too much gusto than strictly necessary, but hey, he had to get his kicks somewhere, right? "All thanks to you; I got laid."

 

And that was it, Sam's smug grin and prideful boasting? Destroyed. Dean felt accomplished.

 

“Dean.” Sam hissed at him after a small bout of the silent treatment. “Storm – the woman that can control the weather – said I'll need a codename, that everybody uses it here.”

 

Dean blinked, slowly, waiting for the words to compute before he turned to stare incredulously at Sam. “If you tell me you let them name you Boy Wonder, I will disown you right here.”

 

The fourteen year old huffed, not impressed, before speaking up again. “They gave you the same name too, Dean, since it can be something like a surname I think. I spoke to Professor Xavier, who's a telepathic, and he asked me what I'd like.”

 

“Please, for the love of pie, tell me you chose something badass. Wait,” Dean turned narrowed eyes on his brother. “Did the guy mind read you or anything?”

 

“It was on short notice!” Sam squeaked, ignoring Dean's question with a wide panicked look and- and- oh _no_ , he looked _embarrassed_ , damn it. “The only thing I could think of was-!”

 

A glass tinkled suddenly, interrupting and grabbing both the brother's attention and focusing it onto the Professor, watching him rasp a spoon against his water filled glass with such a dainty expression Sam had to grab Dean by the thigh to keep him from leaving.

 

“Now that we're all settled,” Professor Xavier began, smiling amiably at everybody as the last gaggle of children seated themselves into open spots. “I believe I need to introduce everyone to our new guests. As you are all aware, the need for secrecy goes both ways, as such, both of our guests wish to be called Hunter, the younger of which will be staying with us from now on. I hope you treat them both well and help them feel comfortable here.”

 

Some of the kids around the table smiled warmly, waving at Sam with a familiarity that told of already having met. Dean only knew the Professor, the blue doctor, and red sunglasses out of everybody on the table besides his little brother, but rather than look around and put on a show, Dean turned murderous eyes on his little brother. “Hunter?” He gritted out, voice low and dangerous, smiling charmingly at a red haired woman sitting next to sunglasses dude. “Out of all the _freaking_ names you could think of, you chose the one word in the freaking language that could get us _caught_ by Dad and company?”

 

Before Sam could reply, the Professor carried on. “Now, feel free to introduce yourself to the brothers as we eat. Ah, here comes the food.”

 

“It was word vomit,” Sam pleaded, hand on Dean's thigh still clutching him tight. “I'm sorry, Dean, I swear.” A pause, as members of the kitchen staff Dean recognised came filtering in from a side door with plates upon plates of food. Sam spoke up again, voice small and pained. “... Don't be angry.”

 

Shit. How could he be angry, when Sam said it in that abandoned voice? He was already going to have to leave the kid here after a few days. Dean sighed, making sure to keep his face free and charming in case someone was watching, and spared Sam a small smile. “It's 'kay, bro. Least you didn't choose something lame.” At the pointed jerk Dean directed at sunglasses dude, Sam snickered, looking guilty right after, the little bitch. But seriously, what sort of a codename was _Cyclops?_ Maybe underneath the red tinted visor the guy only had one eye. Dean wondered what _his_ power was meant to be.

 

The dark woman with the shockingly light hair he'd seen from before sipped at her water, putting it down a moment later and smiling at Dean. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I am called Storm.” She said, voice smoking hot and just on the right side of _whoa_ , directed all at Dean. “I've already met you're brother. Do you plan on staying for long?”

 

So _this_ was the weather-controlling lady? Sam had told him a bit more about her while they'd been supernatural-proofing Sam's room. Damn, she was hot, and Dean didn't even care she had such a transparent name like _Storm_. Kinda just added to the hot factor, actually. “Only a few days, actually.” He replied, seeing no reason to lie. He needed to keep himself as unassuming as possible, to lower the amount of people that would remember him here. You never knew when John Winchester might slip in pretending to be a friend, or what little piece of information someone in the building could give that would clue him in.

 

Hot Lady nodded, accepting the answer, allowing the conversation to be picked up by the doctor – Hank. “Well, as you know, I'm Beast.” The man said, winking at them with goodwill. Dean had to actually admit it, if to no one else but himself, that he sort of kinda liked the guy. For one, he was a helluva lot jollier than Dean expected of someone with blue freakin' fur. “And you better rest up that shoulder, young man.”

 

Cyclops-dude was sitting next to the red haired woman Dean had noticed before, perking up at the doctor's words from his seat. “How is your shoulder anyway, Hunter?”

 

Dean winced, remembering suddenly from Sam's words Cyclops dude and red haired woman had dragged his sorry ass out of the Impala, meaning they'd seen the injury left behind by the most pissed off vengeful ghost Dean had ever seen. They, including Hank, probably all thought Dad had done it, though how Dad would've inflicted five razor sharp wounds that looked like they belonged to an animal was beyond him, but hey, humans – they were good at coming up with unlikely explanations for things they couldn't understand.

 

“Uh, good.” He stomped on Sam's foot underneath the table, silently begging his brother to take over the course of the conversation. Sam's eyebrows made only the slightest movement to show the pain, too used to their violent under-the-table conversations for it to actually register on his face, but before little brother could come to Dean's rescue with a barrage of questions that would make Sherlock Holmes proud, the red haired woman spoke up with a suspiciously knowing glint in her eyes.

 

“I'm Jean, by the way.” She introduced herself. “No cool name for me.” She threw an arm over the person next to her, on the opposite side from Cyclops, and pulled him in close. “And this is Nightcrawler.”

 

First thing Dean noticed? The blue. Then while he was thinking of just what exactly was up with these guys and their fascination with the colour blue, he noticed the eyes – the _yellow eyes_. And even though the colour meant absolutely nothing to him, even though he honestly had no idea _why, something_ just felt wrong, something just screamed at him to bless his glass of water and throw it, to grab Sam and just get the hell out of Dodge. He would have completely followed that through too if the blue guy – Nightcrawler – didn't suddenly open his mouth and speak with a German/Russian/God Knew What accent Dean had ever heard of and awkwardly wave.

 

“Hello. I am Nightcrawler.” And that wave. Just. How the hell could Dean run away from _that_? No self-respecting fugly would ever act like that. And Dean just didn't know of any supernatural creature that spoke with a... German? Maybe Russian? Whatever, one of those countries anyway – accent. So Dean resigned himself to only keep an eye on the blue man – damn, was that a _tail_ behind the guy? - and give Sam a subtle warning.

 

“And that, over there,” Jean continued, nodding her head to the guy sitting next to Dean. “Is Wolverine.”

 

Wolverine.

 

Holy shit, he was sitting next to the guy with six inch blades inside his knuckles?

 

Sure, he'd noticed the big lumbar jack guy sitting next to him, looking like he enjoyed cutting down huge tree's with a giant axe as a satisfying past time. The sideburns and wild as all hell hair was a bit too hard to miss too, but Dean was in a room full of _freaks_ – when you got right down to it – and he was a bit more preoccupied with trying to secretly ogle the casual displays of abilities coming from the kids that he hadn't considered the relatively normal looking guy sitting next to him high on his priority. Way Sam said it, Wolverine would fit in damn well with Dad and the others, had barely blinked when Sam held a gun to his face and cut to the issue without any of the diplomatic crap Storm had tried. So basically he was Dean's kinda guy, and that was only reconfirmed with the distracted grunt of a greeting Wolverine gave, too busy tearing into a steak to offer any actual words. 

 

Jean was staring at Dean though, had been from the moment she introduced Wolverine, and Dean wandered for a moment what _her_ power was. Maybe she was some sort of a human phoenix, bursting into flames at random intervals to come alive again. Or maybe he was confusing actual lore with Harry Potter and her red hair again. Her expression was different from before, now closed off and angry, whereas before she'd been open and happy. Sunglasses dude touched her arm, grabbing her attention with the simple movement, and the two did nothing but _look_ at each other for a bit before Jean gave a small nod and returned her attention to the plate in front of her. The way the two acted with each other – hell, the way everybody around the table acted with each other – was something borne of familiarity, which made sense in an abstract sort of fashion. They were all 'mutants', different from other people, and because of it had come together like some ragtag family and bonded over it. A bit like how hunters banded together to hash out shit they'd seen and try and make a few friends in a world that was out to eat them. Though these guys actually _stuck_ together. Hunters were all solitary by nature, more or less.

 

But Dean could get behind that. And it'd be seriously cool to have superpower-wielding friends to call up in a time of need – or, to have superpower-wielding friends he could get _Sam_ to call up for him in a time of need. Man, how things would be easier if Dean could run at the speed of light. Never get sidelined by a werewolf again.

 

Wouldn't that be sweet?

. . .

 

It was pitch black when the bed depressed, a weight settling in besides Dean and startling him from sleep. Muggy and confused, he belatedly realised it was Sam climbing into bed with him, gangly teenage arms moving the duvet on top of the two before he curled them around Dean's chest, legs intertwining with Dean's own. Grunting out his “what are you doing, Sam?” Dean rubbed at his face and the crust around his eyes, yawning loudly as the digital clock lit up silently with the numbers _04:23_ glowing in the dark.

 

“Leavin' tomorrow.” Sam muttered in an answer, gripping onto Dean like an octopus. “Leavin' me.”

 

Oh god. He could barely handle chick flick moments when the sun was hanging up high in the sky, how was he supposed to handle them _now_? “I'm not _leavin'_ you, you _girl_.” Dean mumbled back irritably, slurring the words. “Fuck, le' me sleep. It's too early in the mornin' to deal with this shit.”

 

“No.” Sam immediately responded petulantly, squeezing Dean harder. “You gotta call as soon as you get a room. Kay?”

 

Dean really wanted to say ' _or what_ ' but held back by a thin strand. “You gonna let me sleep if I do?”

 

“Promise.”

 

“ _Fuck yes_ , now let me sleep.”

 

Sam snorted, letting up on the pressure of his arm-squeeze, but didn't get up from the bed. Considering it wasn't at all too big and both Winchester's were growing boys fated to at _least_ six feet (it was in the genes, just look at Dad, and Dean had already hit that marked but still ate like a horse), it was an uncomfortable fit. But they'd been sharing a bed on and off since Sam was six months old, and the bed was bigger than the singles they sometimes had to co-sleep on, so Dean just huffed in irritation and squirmed about until he was comfortable enough, sleeping on his stomach with Sam draped all over him like a too hot blanket. Actually, the position they were in was the general favourite one, and the only one where the night didn't end in bloodshed.

 

Yawning widely above him, Sam snuffled as he began to fall prey to exhaustion, breathing slowing down to resting level. Some skewered form of words came out, whispered into the small space between them right before he fell unconscious, sounding suspiciously like a “ _love you_.”

 

Dean pointedly ignored it.


	3. Chapter 3

It was just past New Years when fifteen year old Sam found himself stuck in a three-way (not including him) stand-off between a strange man, Wolverine, and Cyclops. Whatever was going on, it was obvious the new guy didn't want the others to know about the envelope – or, well, about the knife – he'd quickly slipped into Sam's hands right from the start. 

 

Morbidly curious, Sam watched as Wolverine – who he'd come to learn was actually called Logan – waved a fist at the man, the three sharp blades protruding from his knuckles. The new guy, a tall, lithe man with a stylish long coat, didn't seem all too bothered by the show of hostility coming from more than just Wolverine. Cyclops – Scott Summers – looked just about ready to take off his sunglasses and laser blast the new guy out of the building.

 

A hand landed on his shoulder, grabbing his attention, and Sam looked up to see Scott standing protectively next to him. “Sam, did he hurt you?”

 

“Uh,” even without his powers, Sam wasn't exactly an easy kid to _hurt_. “No, I'm fine.”

 

Scott nodded. “Then please, go to your room.”

 

“Ouch,” the new guy said, feigning pain with a hand to his heart. “I th'nk Remy is feelin' a lot of bad will, 'ere.”

 

Logan growled, the _snikt_ of the blades coming free from his other hand loud in the room. “Ya got a lotta balls coming here, Gambit.”

 

The newly named Gambit (a codename for Remy, maybe?) smirked over at Logan, sparing a wink in Sam's direction. “Ahuh, Remy has bus'ness wit' da lil' Hunter bro.” He said, lounging back onto the sill of the large, arched, window he'd climbed in through. “An' can't I come visit now an' den?”

 

The accent was strange, something familiar from the years of driving through the open highways of America, something that barely tickled faint familiarity in him. The man was strange, not just in the way he held himself, aloof and relaxed while in the presence of what was obviously not friends, but his eyes. They were red, red on black to be exact, and Sam _knew_ demons had black eyes, but he'd never heard of them having... black and _red_ eyes too. That, and the fact that the window sill Gambit had entered from was one of the salted ones too. But more than that, he'd come from the window as sleek as a cat, called Sam over and slipped him the envelope and knife. Sam wasn't stupid, he knew a con artist when he saw one, or at the very least someone who knew their way around a hustle or two, and had taken the thick envelope and knife with nothing but a nod and stuffed it in the small of his back.

 

Then Logan had come tearing round the corner, all but shoved Sam back, and Scott had been following close behind.

 

“I knew I smelt yer damn stench, bub.” Logan was carrying on, holding himself back from attacking the man. “What do you want with Hunter?”

 

A tactical move, Sam noted, not mentioning his name. Even if Gambit probably already knew it. He hadn't had a chance to speak to the strange eyed man before Logan had come out of nowhere.

 

“Non, non, it don't matter, _homme_. All finished!” Gambit chirped, clapping his hands together. “Remy has bus'ness elsewhere, so _au revoir_ ~!” Then without another word, he leaned back on the windowsill he was sitting on, further and further and further back until he slipped off into a swan dive off the windowsill, disappearing from view.

 

Sam was on the second floor. This was a giant mansion in where the _second floor_ translated to an average building's worth of _fourth floor_. And the man had just _slipped_ of the windowsill with a small little wave and a smug twist of lips. Sam didn't know whether to be impressed or not.

 

Logan huffed, rolling his shoulders in agitation before turning to Sam. “What'd he want with ya, anyway, kid?”

 

Damn, Sam hated being called that, but Logan was just the sort of man that would stick to a name no matter what happened. For an answer, Sam shrugged a shoulder, stuffing his hands into his pocket and hunching over. “He just came out of nowhere and asked if I was new.” Which was a complete lie, but neither Jean nor Professor Xavier were around to catch him on it, and the hunter's life made lying a new art form of _talent_. Logan cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at him, sniffing the air once – Sam theorised, to see if he could smell any difference in Sam's scent – but found nothing to comment on. He growled in anger instead, brushing past Sam and Scott with muttered curses about Gambit, referring to him as a Cajun.

 

 _Oh_ , Sam thought in surprise, _Louisiana_. No wonder why the accent had seemed familiar, Louisiana had been one of the states the Winchester family had spent more than a month in, even if it was in different cities. He turned to look at Scott with his hands still in his pockets. “So, um, can I go now?”

 

Scott sighed, running a hand through his short hair warily before nodding. “Sure, Sam. I need to go and check the security cameras.”

 

Nodding absently, Sam hunched down and quickly strode out of the corridor, making a beeline for his room with the envelope and knife metaphorically burning a hole in the small of his back. He wondered what could be in the envelope, who could have sent the knife, though he knew without a doubt it was from Dean. It'd been _months_ since he'd last seen Dean, the last memory of his big brother being when Dean had driven off in his Impala. This was the longest period of time in his life Sam had been separated from his big brother – hell, a week from Dean's exit had been a week too long already – and Sam hated the turn their life had taken. As if hunting monsters that went bump in the night wasn't freaky enough, now Sam was a mutant with powers, Dean was on the run and couldn't spare a moment to show his face, and the notions of normal he'd started to entertain were even further down the drain then they'd been ten months ago.

 

Ten months. He hadn't seen Dean in ten months.

 

Sure, he talked to Dean at the very least once a month. It went a long way into assuring Sam that he wasn't going to lose a brother with how Dean diligently called him (on the phone he'd left Sam with) every time, chatting on and on for hours in the obnoxious way of his, like it was normal for them to be apart for so long. Every now and then, Dean let loose hints of where he was – small time hints, stuff anybody that might be listening in (you could never be too sure) would never understand, including John – and sometimes, Sam put together the location and hunt Dean was doing, researching everything he could – with the extensive library the Xavier Institute had and fast internet connection – sending cryptic text messages back to whatever phone Dean was using. It worked for them, in a strange malfunctioning way that was their life, but the calls lately had been trailing off, coming less and less often, what conversation they did have revolving mostly around Sam and how his education and training were going, and very little about what _Dean_ was doing. Sam knew it was intentional, he knew Dean was hiding something, and it had nothing to do with Dad and the other hunters that were possibly still searching for Dean, because Dean had no trouble mentioning close encounters with them like the time he'd almost gotten caught by John and Bobby Singer, the latter having spotted Dean before Dean drove the hell out of Dodge.

 

Whatever it was, Sam was certain it had to do with the envelope.

 

Once safely in the confines of his room, Sam checked the salt lines and hidden protection symbols, something in him itching to be paranoid. After Dad had considered Sam old enough to start learning the ropes of hunting, paranoia had become his best friend and confidant along with gut instinct. That gut instinct had him opening up his bedroom window, wide enough for someone to crawl through or crawl out, switching on the lights as the darkening sky outside made things hard to see. An icy breeze wafted into the room, chilling the air instantly with its January air, but Sam was too intent on seating himself on the table and ripping open the envelope with the knife.

 

Just as he'd predicted, a thick wad of papers spilled out of the ruined envelope, some printed pages, others scrawled notes in a block-style but efficient handwriting, and some drawings to boot. Sam leafed through the pages, reading the printed words first, immediately recognising the Latin prose. A section had been highlighted, and in the margin in blue ink Dean had written _“MEMORIZE_ _!_ _”_ with two hard lines underneath, emphasising it. Sam read the highlighted section, recognising it to be an excerpt of the infamous _Rituale Romanum._ He read through it, then dug in his desk drawer for paper and pen, going about the soothing chore of translating the part Dean had sent him. As he translated, he understood this was the part of the exorcism that would send a demon back to Hell rather than just simply dispelling it from a human host, and he recognised the importance of memorising it (you could never be too sure), and worried about what could have happened to make Dean do the same.

 

Translation done, he looked it over one last time before burning the paper he'd been scribbling on, getting rid of the evidence. He now knew what the section Dean had emphasised meant, and it made sense. Putting the exorcism to the side for later perusal, Sam fingered through the remaining papers, seeing most of it as lore on demons. He came upon one of the pages Dean had written on himself, one that looked like it'd been photocopied from a journal, much like the one their Dad had. On it, Dean's compact handwriting was apparent. His eyes widened with each word he read, eyebrows reaching up to his hairline in surprise. Dean had written down what was true or not in the lore, what worked on demons, what didn't; and underlined three times and circled was two words: _demons lie._

 

Drawn underneath it was something Sam had never seen before. A circle of dark ink with flaming surrounding it, and a pentagram in the middle. Scrawled underneath it was a simple _“GET IT ON YOU.”_

 

Sam had never seen a demon, and as far as he knew, neither had Dean or John. He wasn't sure, but he was certain they hadn't even seen the one that killed mom, and even if they did it wouldn't have mattered since demons possessed people. But this... What Dean had written down was a wealth of information and confirmation on what worked, and not, that could only come from experience. Alarmed, Sam scoured through the information Dean had written, trying to glean a hidden meaning from the blunt sentences and _something_ from the way Dean had written with detached precision. But everything was nothing but hard cold facts, no sign of emotion, no jokes, not even a hint of concern or worry, just facts noted and documented by someone that either didn't care, or was being professionally distant about it.

 

He hoped it was the former.

 

A knock rasped against the windowsill, grabbing Sam's attention from the documents. He turned to look at the window, wondering why he wasn't at all too surprised to see the red eyed Cajun hoist himself through the hole and seat himself on the windowsill.

 

“How very nice of you, _mon ami_.” The man drawled, running a hand through his dark hair. “Hunter said you were da smar' one.”

 

Sam frowned, too used to people downplaying Dean's intelligence, Dean included. It probably wouldn't matter anyway if he said he was just the _eager_ one. Dean only ever enjoyed learning about things he liked or deemed necessary. “Where did you meet him? My brother.”

 

Gambit grinned dangerously at him, turning instead to study the room. “Where's yer roommate, _mignon_?”

 

Still frowning, Sam only spared a glance to the empty bed. “Don't have one.” Then he did a double take. “Wait, did you just call me _cute_?”

 

“Intelligent _and_ cute!” Gambit laughed, pronouncing _intelligent_ the way French people do. “ _Mon ami_ , Remy t'inks he migh' like you.” He threw a leg over the other with a bit too much dramatic flair, crossing them at the ankles, and studied Sam with a curious look. “Remy ran into yer bro in Nawlins',” he snickered, probably thinking Sam wouldn't cringe at the wrong pronunciation of the city. “Bigger Hunter thought Remy wassa demon first.”

 

With those eyes? Sam didn't blame him.

 

“How is he?” He asked, reiterating his first question. “Is he OK?”

 

Gambit shrugged, an elegant and dangerous rolling of the shoulders that belied the man's apparently lithe body. Sam could see a fighter in there, someone who liked to watch but could strike out like a cobra when it pleased, and kept a firm hold on the knife he'd placed on the desk. “A'right.” The man answered dismissively, waving a hand in the air. “Says ya need a tattoo?”

 

Blinking, Sam looked down at the anti-possession symbol Dean had said to get, looking it over and wondering how he'd explain it to anyone that might notice why he suddenly had a tattoo. “Is Dean in trouble?” He shot back instead, too skilled in the art of questioning to be affected by Gambit's deflection.

 

A raised eyebrow and a snort was his reply. “When's da boo neva' in trouble, lil' Hunter? He's fine. Now common, before dat _loup_ sniffs me out.”

 

Sighing in exasperation, Sam arranged all the papers into a neat stack and went to one of the pictures hanging on the wall. Moving the painting aside, he placed the papers inside the small safe Dean had made during the first day, now decked out with a combination lock Sam had wheedled from an electronics store at the mall while pretending to go to the men's room. Behind him, Gambit whistled in approval, probably catching site of the emergency stash and glock Sam had hidden away in there, but Sam shut it quickly and changed the combination, speaking over the small _clicks_ it made in the off chance case Remy was also a superb safe picker. “Fine, yeah, OK I'll come.”

 

Done with the safe, he grabbed the one paper he'd left out of the stack – the one with the symbol on it, ripped from the other half of Dean's factual writing – and went towards the windowsill.

 

Gambit cocked an eyebrow at him as Sam came closer. “Yer sum far aways from da floor, lil' Hunter.”

 

Yeah, as if that'd be a problem. “You climbed the tree right outside to get here, so we'll just climb that one down.”

 

And Gambit just snorted.

. . .

 

_This meat-suit was an interesting one, alright. Some snivelling little man who'd always wanted to grab life by the horns and take it rather than watch it pass by meekly. But aah, what could he do? Too passive to confront, too submissive to take, too weak to even fight for the rights to his body. But it was a nice one, alright, and all his, this sweet little body, tall and good looking with a little tilt to its smile just on the right side of charming. Had all the pretty ladies flushing. And screaming._

 

_Amused as the latest one tried to run, he padded after it, scratching behind the puffing Hellhound's ear, getting a throaty whine in pleasure. Contract retrieving wasn't usually his gig – left that to the red eyed boys down below, actually – but other... benefactors... of his plan had been slightly pissed at the latest twist to their big plan. He personally couldn't blame her really, he was feeling a tad murderous himself, even if human abominations weren't usually his targets. And this one was blond and pretty too, something like a... Jenn, maybe. Or perhaps Jess? Something simple and monotone like that either way, he wasn't quite sure. But oh, she'd look wonderful up on the ceiling, wouldn't she? Yes, with her stomach slashed too, make that pretty little dress of hers stain red. Maybe he'd hold out on the fireworks until someone found her? A silent message to big ol' John and his stupid guard dog. A taunt._

 

_Johnny boy didn't take too well to taunts._

 

_Finally tiring of the woman's insistent attempts to burn him (hah, she could turn herself completely into fire, how ironic?), he waved a hand and threw her up against a wall, watching in distant interest as the wall around her instantly charred into thick ash. Wouldn't it be hilarious if she moved her arms, blackening the walls as she went? Then she'd make something of a perverted snow angel, like a fire angel, or an ash angel to be more precise. And that would be even more ironic for the ultimate plan._

 

“ _Now, now,” he sang, wagging a reproachful finger at her. “This is no way to die.”_

 

_The girl – could barely be called a woman, really – garbled something in reply, deciding to instead spit in his direction when her vocal chords wouldn't work right. He stared down at the glob of saliva that hadn't quite reached him, making this meat-suit of his cock an eyebrow in her direction._

 

“ _Screw you.” She wheezed out, struggling to breathe. So pretty, if he didn't have to_ send a message _to an irritating pair of hunters, he'd have tried out other little forms of ending a human's life. Asphyxiation seemed like a beautiful way to go, didn't it?_

 

“ _Oh, Jenn,” he sighed, shaking his head sadly. “Is that really what you want your last words to be?”_

 

 _His words only made her struggle harder, fear and desperation lending her a few pints of power that meant little to him. He always wondered what the reasoning behind these abominations were, why they'd suddenly cropped up out of nowhere. Even the humans considered them_ wrong _, just like humans usually tended to think whenever something they didn't understand popped up. Scientific mutation of the genes, they said. Sure, whatever. Next step in humanity's evolution, they said. Oh how wonderful, how simply interesting. Abominations, that's what they were. But also perfect targets. At least, when they weren't going invisible on you anyway. Now_ that _, had been irritating._

 

_The girl wheezed something again, a garbled mess of words not coming out right, but he thought he heard her say “It's Jess, you bitch”, which only brought a grin to his face, and an idea. Maybe this would be the one that got away. Maybe this would be the one that stumbled her way to whatever hideout that irritation of John's eldest son had stashed cute little Sammy in._

 

“ _Alright, alright.” He mumbled, hoarding up close to Jess' space, right in front of her. He gripped her chin, forcing her eyes to look into his own yellow ones, and smiled at the little whimper of fear her vocal chords allowed her to release. “Today's your lucky day, Jessy ol' girl.” He murmured into her ear, pushing off of the wall and taking three steps back. He released his mental hold on her, watching as she dropped to the floor in a tangle of limbs and shudders. “Go on then, scat.” 'Find me the little hidey hole you freaks are holed up in.'_

 

_Thankfully, the girl didn't need to be told twice._

. . .

 

The rumbling of the motorcycle came to a stop, cutting off abruptly to leave nothing but the still silence of the night. Logan peered up in disgust at the creepy old house in the middle of nowhere, looking around for a moment before he did a double take and spotted the Impala, all sleek and sharp edges, the black paint job forcing it to converge with the surrounding darkness. The car looked positively _dangerous_ , lounging there as a crash and a shot came from the barely standing house interrupting the dark night. If Logan were the type to think of an inanimate object as having _feelings_ , he'd be pretty damn sure it _was_ , simply lounging there like the damn beauty was used to this.

 

Logan sure as hell was. Seemed like every time he left to go back to the mansion to check in, he came back to the numbnut doing something illegal. Or playing a very dangerous game of poker with some shady people. Or flirting with the sheriff's daughter. Like setting a grave on fire. Though he still didn't understand _why_ the idiot had been doing that last one.

 

Distracted by his thoughts, he patted his ride fondly, turning round to start hurrying towards the house. Habit had him sniffing the air, taking a moment to see if maybe danger had a scent, but this far out of civilization only had him wrinkling his nose as farm life assaulted him. Lights flickered on and off in the house, eerie as fuck, the whole house looking like a bad reject from the ' _Texas Chainsaw Massacre'_ film. Irritated at having to go inside, and at the thoughts of what Hunter could _possibly be doing_ , Logan kicked the door open, holding it with a hand when it came to slam back shut, then striding through the house.

 

Inside was even worse than outside. The house had obviously been abandoned, items and signs of life still littered around the strange living room Logan had set foot in. Everything was in disrepair, large chunks of the place vandalised by ungrateful teenagers, the glass of the window broken. Something almost feminine shrieked upstairs, another crash shaking the house's foundation, and from the stairs something came tumbling down. It landed with a painful thud, a groan coming from the figure as it tried to get out of the way, scrambling on all fours away from the stairs. Logan grabbed the kid's shirt, yanking him backwards roughly, instincts screaming at him to follow Dean's example and _get the hell away from the stairs_. Just in time too, for a piano came crashing down after Dean, landing with a mocking note right where Dean had been moments ago, and Logan had to wonder _what_ had thrown that.

 

The kid grinned over at him, holding out a sawed off shotgun while pumping another in his other hand. “Was wondering when you were gonna follow me into one of these creepy ass houses.”

 

Never willing to get his hands on _any_ sort of fire power, Logan grabbed the gun, wondering why the kid had two on him with a raised eyebrow. “You've been waiting for me?” The mere fact that the kid had known he was being followed was something, but then again, Logan hadn't known the kid could play poker too.

 

A breeze picked up, transforming quickly into a fierce wind that whipped at their clothes and hair. Dean grinned wildly, looking two straws short of a happy meal with his ragged look and the pretty little bruise forming just underneath his jaw line, jerking his head over to the stairs. “Aim and shoot, big guy!” He yelled over the wind. “I need to find her necklace!”

 

What did that even _mean_? “Hey- Wait-”

 

There was a woman standing in front of him.

 

A woman wearing a white dress that seemed... _off_... and staring at him as if he'd done her a personal offence.

 

“Dude.” Dean's voice came from somewhere behind him, cocking his shotgun and _shooting_. The woman dispersed in a cloud of dust, shrieking like a banshee. Or. Well. Like _Banshee_. “Don't check her out, _shoot_.”

 

Then the woman came back, Logan frantically thought _'what the_ fuck _,'_ and used his own shotgun to shoot her again, watching in quickly rising denial how she disappeared again. The sound of liquid being spilled from a bottle came from behind, then something that sounded like grains shaking inside a canister. His noise twitched at the heavy stink of petrol, too busy shooting the woman as she came flying at him from all corners to look back and see what the hell the kid was getting up too, but Logan still didn't miss the sound of a lighter being flicked on – a sound he intimately knew well – or the roar of flames.

 

And he also didn't miss the woman – _wearing white and stained with blood –_ scream one final time and burst into flames herself, disappearing into thin wisps of quickly disappearing smoke.

 

He stood there staring, fingers wrapped tight around the shotgun, waiting for her to flicker into view again. Dean noisily came up beside him, smacking him with too much strength on the back like old friends, prying the gun from his hands.

 

“Dude, it's over. Come on, I'm freakin' starving.”

 

But Logan shook his head, looking over the house with a stern eye. Something still felt _off_ , just like it'd done when he'd first seen the house, and there was a scent in the air he hadn't noticed before but was irritating the crap out of him. It was too weak to pinpoint, covered over in thick layers by the heavy cloying smell of petrol and fire, and in the end he just chalked it up to the strangest crap he'd just done in his _life_ (which was really saying a lot) and turned to follow Dean out of the door, questions on his tongue. “Bub, you've got a shit ton to explain.”

 

The green eyed male spared him a cocky look, shrugging casually. “You saw it didn't you? Not much to explain. Basically, everything that goes-”

 

“-bump in the night exists. Really, Winchester? That's how you'll explain it?”

 

The smell was stronger here, a bitter tang that smelt of rotten eggs, and Logan just _knew_ it was coming from the blonde haired woman leaning next to Logan's bike, sprawled all over his ride. Irritation flared in him, hot and strong, only tamped down by Dean tensing behind him. He didn't like this, didn't like having to defer to the kid's obvious knowledge of what the hell was going on, but it was obvious this was an area of expertise that Logan didn't have. And if the kid could grin in the face of some _seriously pissed off_ woman in a white dress and flickering afterthoughts, that probably meant him looking like a trapped fox because of this one – pretty corporeal looking too – woman meant shit was in a whole new ballgame.

 

And when Dean gritted out, “Christo,” and the woman's flinched, her eyes turning bottomless black, well, Logan took back his shotgun and aimed it at the woman head on.

 

“Aaw,” the woman cooed, looking barely legal in a red leather jacket and dark skinny jeans as she stared Logan down. “Is the doggy feeling frightened?”

 

Dean didn't seem impressed, face stony and furious, the calm before the storm, reminding Logan that this was the older Hunter brother, which made him think _this_ was probably where Sam had gotten his bouts of suddenly looking older than he was. “I'm going to send you back to Hell, bitch.”

 

The woman laughed gleefully, holding the bike as support. “Oh, how cute!” She gasped, wiping a fake tear from her eye. “Little toy soldier wants to be like daddy. Speaking of which, where is good ol' Johnny? In fact, where's little Sammy, too?”

 

Dean growled, metaphorical hackles raised. “You bitch--”

 

“--Left you in the ditch, huh?” She continued, interrupting like Dean hadn't even spoken. “Can't blame them. But see here, I have a feeling you still know where they are – especially little Sammy. Never could stay too far from him, could you Dean? Loyal guard dog that you are. And my daddy, who killed your mommy, wants him _oh so much_.” She waved a hand in the air, distracting herself with her nails, before speaking up again. “Daddy's looking for you, you know.”

 

Logan turned to look at Dean, eyes tracking the subtle emotions playing over the younger male's face. Dean had a damn good poker face going on, but something the woman said had hit a nerve, maybe the mom comment? Dean swallowed thickly, the only outward display of anything he might be feeling, and slapped a lopsided grin on his face. “Yeah? So you gonna run back and tattle on my location, sweetheart?”

 

The woman stood up, pushing away from the motorcycle with unassuming grace. “You can call me, Meg, darlin'.” She answered back, smiling coyly at Dean. “And yeah, I'll be doing that. _After_ I have a little... _fun_ , with you.”

 

Then Dean started _chanting_ , the woman – Meg – jerked back in surprise, and the next thing Logan knew, black smoke erupted from her mouth, streaming upwards in the air before writhing off into the horizon, the woman dropping to the floor like a heavy sack. Dean cursed next to him, running towards the woman and skidding next to her, dropping to his knees to check her pulse. Logan approached the two a hell of a lot more warily, eyeing the night sky in case the black _goddamn_ smoke decided to make a comeback, and frowned when Dean cursed again and stood up.

 

“We need to leave.” The younger of the two stated hurriedly, grabbing his dropped shotgun and making a jerky move towards his Impala.

 

Logan glanced down at the woman's body, instantly knowing it was dead – _lived too damn long not to know a dead body when he saw one –_ and instead turned to look at Dean, not missing the ' _we_ ' Dean had used. Whatever the hell the black smoke had been, it'd seen Logan, knew Logan was with Dean, and would probably be telling her... its... whatever's daddy. “Damn it,” Logan bitched, fetching a cigarette from his pocket as he moved to his ride. “I knew you were fucking trouble.”

 

Dean looked surprised at his easy acquiescence, stopping short for a moment before returning to his journey towards the waiting beast, muttering something about a birthday present.

 

Logan whirled round to face Dean, surprise over his face. “Wait, it's your birthday?”

 

Dean shrugged, opening up the driver's door of the Impala, looking weary and exhausted by the question. “Happy twentieth birthday, right?”

. . .

 

January passed, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October and November, and Westchester County was thick in the hold of December. Snow had already fallen, covering untouched ground in a sheet of white, and Christmas was just round the corner.

 

Also, Sam was the only male in this group.

 

Next to him, Kitty and Rogue were arguing about the merits of a straightener as opposed to a curler, while Rahne – Wolfsbane – and Amara – Magma – trailed behind them a few steps. Jean led the small group, window shopping past every store they went, and Sam wondered for the sixth time _why he was here_. All he'd wanted was to see if Dean had sent that book he'd promised to the P.O. Box he had here, or whether he'd have to try and find what he was looking into elsewhere, even if he was worried what the staff at the Westchester mansion would say if they saw his browsing history. Even if he did try his best to get rid of it every few hours. Instead, now he had to trawl through the bright, people filled pandemonium that was the mall at Christmas time, and Sam was the only male present.

 

Also, probably the tallest.

 

Jean looked back at him, laughing softly. “I remember the day you first came – you were barely to my arm and only fourteen years old. Now you're sixteen, getting cuter and cuter, and growing taller every night.”

 

Right. Mind reader. He still sometimes forgot to keep up his shield when around mind readers, even if it didn't make sense _how_ he could do it. Telekinesis only meant being able to move things with the power of one's mind – Sam knew, he'd researched the hell out of it the moment he saw the library they had stocked at the mansion – in no way whatsoever should Sam have been able to figure out a way to block his thoughts from being picked up by Jean and Professor Xavier. Even though they both seemed impressed and curious about it. Sam had a working theory that it was because matters of the mind were all interconnected, all _psionic_ abilities, and thus could be interwoven together if someone had a seriously bad itch to scratch. And the last thing Sam needed was for either Jean or Professor Xavier to pick up about _hunting_.

 

Smiling at her, he shrugged awkwardly. “It's long overdue.” He simply said, grinning at the reminder of his age. His sixteenth birthday had been _awesome_ , even if everybody had found out about the anti-possession tattoo he'd gotten done right over his heart. Note for next time: don't play strip poker with _anyone_. Especially bloodthirsty girls.

 

“We need to get groceries too.” Amara grumbled up from the back, walking with her hands in the thick hoodie she was wearing. She hated the cold, completely understandable considering she was a fire-based mutant, and completely different from Bobby who was enjoying himself twenty-four-seven in the mansion's grounds. “And hot drinks. I demand hot dri--- ooooh, look.”

 

The girls grabbed each other, stalking over to a lingerie shop proudly proclaiming to be selling things at 70%. Sam swallowed at the displays, averting his eyes until he saw a conveniently placed bench at the other side, and walked towards it to sit down. This was the tenth store the girls had all run off into, and Sam knew the gig, knew to just wait outside looking pretty until they came out again. Surprisingly, Jean ambled along beside him, sitting next to him and throwing a leg over the other, sighing in exasperation.

 

“You know the only reason they brought you along was so you could carry their things, right?”

 

Sam shrugged, a bit embarrassed because he _hadn't_ known, but then again, the last two years had gone by faster than he would've thought possible away from Dean, and he still felt a pang of misery at the idea of how _long_ it'd been since he had seen his brother. If it wasn't for the occasional mutants Dean ran into on hunts and sent over to the Institute, Sam wouldn't have known if Dean was even alive. “It's fine. Needed to check up on my P.O. Box anyway.”

 

Jean nodded. “What do you plan on doing after finishing your education at the mansion, anyway?” She asked instead, looking over at him.

 

Sam gave it some thought before deciding answering truthfully would be for the best. “I think... I think I'll go to college. I've been looking at possibilities lately, and I think I might have a chance of getting into a really good school.” _'After helping Dean,'_ he added on mentally.

 

“Ooh,” a new voice interrupted behind them. “Go Harvard. I hear that place is _teaming_ with vengeful ghosts.”

 

Sam jumped from the bench, whirling round to face the voice, and eyed the woman strangely. Jean, confused, stood up and moved to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder to calm him down, but Sam was too busy staring at the woman. The red leather jacket, the short cropped blonde hair, and the smirk didn't look familiar to him, nothing about her gave him any clues as to her identity, but what she'd _said_. Damn it, what if she was a hunter? One in contact with Dad? But there was no way she could connect a short fourteen year old with Sam now, except for...

 

Except for his hair.

 

Damn it, he should've listened to Dean and cut it.

 

“Can we help you?” Jean's voice interrupted him, voice upbeat and polite.

 

The woman, the hunter, _whatever she was_ , shrugged a lone shoulder, eyes not moving away from Sam as she smirked wider. “Oh no, I'm just enjoying the view here. Not everyday you find what you're looking for.” She blinked, and the eyes turned a murky black for a second before blinking back to normal again.

 

_Shit._

 

Jean's hand clasped Sam's shoulder, fingers digging into the muscles there, the only outward expression of her emotions. “We gotta go.” Her other hand landed on Sam's other shoulder, moving him around in a tight circle and frog marching into the lingerie store the girls had gone into. Sam craned his neck backwards, seeing the woman – _demon, eyes blinking black at will or the name of God –_ still standing there, staring at Sam with hunger. 

 

Jean seemed spooked, a bit more so than Sam would've thought, and then he realised she could _hear thoughts_ , meaning she might have heard something. “Did you... Did you hear something?” He pointed at his head, not willing to say _'with your mind'_ inside the store filled with women and a few unlucky men.

 

Jean stared at him for a moment, emotions battling across her face before she grimaced slightly. “No. Just thought she was a bit creepy.” She regretted lying to Sam, especially since it was so obvious the woman had been there _for_ Sam, but thought it'd be better to not scare him before speaking to the Professor about this and come up with _something_.

 

She gathered up all the girls, forcing them to drop what they hadn't already paid for, and herded them out of the store's other entrance, replaying over and over again the last trickle of thought the woman had projected right at the end.

 

_'Father will be pleased.'_


	4. Chapter 4

“ _Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.” - Confucius_

**Sunday, May 1** **st** **, 3:46 pm:**

 

The abandoned cabin deep in the woods was probably the dumbest place Dean could have decided to go, but as he limped through the trees and greenery, wincing at the pull of far too many aches and bruises caused by a Rugaru, he decided he just didn't give a damn, and that it would be really unlikely he'd get caught _here_ after three years of playing hide and seek with hunters. The little cabin was as bad as it'd always been, almost falling apart as it loomed quietly in its solitude, surrounded by nothing but nature. Dean circled the clearing before going anywhere near the cabin, watching it to see if it was empty, if there were any other tracks around the area that weren't of animal origin. Only once he'd deemed it empty and that the coast was clear did he limp his way to the cabin, opening up the door and coughing at the cloud of dust that attacked him.

 

The inside was almost as bad as the outside – certainly not capable of standing up to any fierce weather, anyway – but not as bad as some of the places Dean had holed up in as of late. Being a lone hunter on the run from both hunters _and_ the law was a serious cramp in his style, something Dean hadn't expected to last so long those three years ago when he'd left Sammy at the stupidly lavish mansion for mutants. But at least now he knew the difference between a mutant and a monster, right? Now, whenever he took a case and realised somebody wasn't so much as a shapeshifter but an actual mutant, he didn't automatically pump them full of silver, which would've been really awkward if he had and horrible for his conscience. Though thankfully he hadn't yet run into any shapeshifting mutants. Just a chick that could turn into a werewolf, called something like... Rain? Who knew. Weird chick.

 

Werewolves not being affected by the lunar cycle aside, Dean dropped the duffel bag towards a corner, taking out a bag of salt he always kept on him and promptly did up the windows and entrances. He went outside the cabin to the end of the clearing and cut a long line down his palm, wincing at the brief flash of pain, watching the blood well up until there was enough for him to use. Quickly, wary of the sun beating down on his back and putting him in plain sight of anyone lurking around, Dean drew a wide circle on the tree branch, a few clicks into the forest, painting a protection symbol – he'd been forced to learn – onto it with easy strokes. He did the same with four other trees, circling around his cabin in a wide arc and mixing the symbols up – two for protection, one for stealth and one to weaken anything strong enough to get past all his preparations. He went inside the cabin and repeated the procedure, so used to it after having done it for the past year or so, ever since that bitch Meg had gotten a whiff of his blood and could find him at the drop of a hat.

 

It was for the best, theoretically, that she was still dogging his heels. It meant she didn't know where Sam was, didn't have a clue about the Westchester Mansion, didn't know that Sam was – to put it bluntly – a psychic. He still didn't like to think of his little brother as a mutant, as something _different_. Psychics he could understand; apparently there was a woman in Lawrence who Dad had gone too and trusted called Missouri, though Dean hadn't gone to see her _because_ Dad trusted her. Any sort of person _Dad_ believed in was someone who would shoot Dean first on sight. And anybody Dad hadn't verified just didn't strike Dean as the real deal. Still, psychics were _human_ that just had a sixth sense stronger than most people, but _mutants_? That sounded like they were a whole different race, something _different_ , and Dean just couldn't get behind that.

 

At least Sam was still safe.

 

Cabin proofing done, Dean collapsed onto a thrift mattress, ignoring the plumes of dust that rose up at the impact, and made himself comfortable. Gun under pillow, knife wrapped around his ankle, Dean toed off his boots and fidgeted until he'd found a position that didn't bother any of the injuries he'd sustained from an irritated Wendigo.

 

His eyes fluttered closed, coming to a stop once his vision was clouded by darkness. And with such an inviting colour seducing him to unconsciousness, Dean fell asleep.

. . .

 

_Beep._

 

“Hey Pastor, it's us, Walt 'n Roy. You're on speaker.”

 

Jim... stared down at his phone, eyebrows rising up before bringing it back up to his ear. “Ah yes, Walt, Roy, how are you both?”

 

One of the men coughed awkwardly, most likely Roy from the sound. Roy always was the more... squeamish, of the two. “We're good, Pastor. Just got a question for ya.”

 

Any other hunter would've said “shoot”, or maybe “fire away”, but Jim was always sensitive about word choices such as those. “Please, ask.”

 

“Well,” Walt began, sounding surprisingly hesitant. “It's just, we didn't know the crazy fuck John Winchester made up with his boy, Dean.”

 

Jim froze, clenching the phone harder to his ear. “Walt, what are you talking about?”

 

“Uh.”

 

“No, Walt, _Dean is dead_. A monster is using his face. Nothing has changed. _What are you talking about_?”

 

Roy cursed at the other end, nothing coming from them for a while before Walt spoke up again. “I saw Dean up in that ol' cabin of Singer's, Pastor.”

 

“When?”

 

“'Bout afternoon? Maybe three or four?”

 

Again, any other hunter would've blasphemed by now, but Jim was a man of the Lord and had far more restraint, despite wanting nothing more than to let loose a barrage of curses. “Walt, Roy, both of you must listen to me very carefully. Get out of there as fast as you can. That _isn't_ Dean. It's a monster working for The Demon.”

 

“ _The_ Demon? John Winchester's fabled demon?”

 

Of course John's tale would be something right out of legend among hunters. He became even more famous after one son got killed and the other kidnapped, now also presumed dead by the majority. Everybody generally kept their opinion to themselves, though, because John was still searching high and low for both, his _alive_ youngest son and the creature that had killed his oldest. Jim closed his eyes, grief overtaking him for a moment, remembering the last time he'd seen Dean, the last time he'd talked to Sam. John was a good man, and his kids had been wonderful kids, the best, most adapted kids he'd ever seen, and none of them deserved the bad fortune that constantly befell them.

 

“Pastor?”

 

Jim opened his eyes, blinking a few times to clear the haze of accumulated liquid before he coughed to clear his throat. “Yes, I'm here. And yes, _The_ Demon. I have to call Bobby Singer and pass on the message, make sure John is aware of this. Remember, Walt, Roy, _stay away from there_. It's not worth losing two hunters over a creature we still know very little about.”

 

The two (very barely just so) hunters gave their assent, mixing it with goodbyes before hanging up. Pastor Jim Murphy stared down at his phone in mute shock, mind going a mile a second as to why the creature wearing Dean's face would be at Bobby's old cabin, and now of all times. It reeked of a trap, especially the timing, just when John had started noticing signs of his demon, putting together storms and cattle mutilations to track the demon's route, and now he had to call him to add another worry onto his load.

 

Sighing, Jim punched in the number to Bobby's, knowing without even trying John wouldn't pick up his phone. The dial tone lasted only three beats before Bobby's gruff greeting came through the phone, making Jim smile despite himself.

 

“Hello, Bobby.” He greeted pleasantly, giving a small prayer that Walt and Roy had taken his advice and weren't going to try something stupid. “How are you?”

 

Bobby hummed in thought for a bit before chuckling. “As much as I like talkin' to ya, Jim, I know you didn't call just to check up on me. Usually you do that around noon.”

 

Jim looked at a nearby clock, noting the time with a wry grin. Noon was around the time Bobby started in on the drinks, and it was already six pm in the evening. “I don't suppose you've gotten any word from John lately, have you?”

 

A grunt. “He went to see that Wendigo problem with the hikers, I think. Said something about someone already takin' care of it.”

 

Jim nodded, glad to see John wouldn't be too far from the cabin. “Bobby, I just got a call from Walt and Roy.”

 

“Those two idiots? I'm surprised they're still alive.”

 

“Bobby. That old cabin of yours, the one John used to take his boys to back when they were...” Young? Still learning how to shoot and salt windows? _Alive?_ “Walt and Roy say they saw Dean there.” Bobby didn't reply immediately, going deadly silent until Jim was afraid he'd somehow lost contact. “Bobby...?”

 

“Jim, I'mma have to call you back.”

 

Jim sighed, shoulders drooping at the tone of his friend. “Bobby...”

 

But he'd already hung up the phone.

. . .

**Monday, May 2** **nd** **, 2:45am:**

 

Figured the son of a bitch would dirty up the trees.

 

“ _... John, wait for me, don't just rush in there...”_

 

He didn't recognise the symbols, painted so crudely over the tree's bark in blood, except for two. Why the bastard felt it needed protection was beyond him, but considering what John was planning on doing to it, the bastard needed all the protection it could get.

 

“ _... We still got no clue as to what it is, John, or how to kill it...”_

 

The cabin was only a few clicks away, smack dab in the middle of the small clearing, a dark silhouette against the dark of the night. It looked exactly like it'd done every other time John had been here, be it when he'd come with his two boys in tow or the years following when they'd been taken from him. He stomped down on the thoughts, refusing to give in to the grief he still harboured, pushing it down deep into the place where he kept his emotions of Mary locked up. Tonight, today, whatever, he'd at least get redemption for his boys, for not being there for them, for not _knowing_ something was wrong until that damn _hunt_ when something had pushed him away without touching him. He should've noticed something wrong about Dean – about the bastard pretending to be his son – maybe wonder what had brought about some of the rebellion Sam had started to grow into, the obvious side effect of being under that _thing's_ thumb every hour of the day. Dammit, he couldn't believe he'd left that son of a bitch with his _boy_ , with his _youngest_ , and now he'd lost both. And the monster that had taken them away from him was right there, in the cabin, and John had the element of surprise on his side.

 

Tracking through the trees, John moved towards the cabin, hunching down so he couldn't be seen through what little remained of the windows. He hadn't seen any actual sign of life around the area except for the sigils on the tree. He'd hacked off two of the symbols he hadn't recognised with his pen knife until all that was left behind was the mauled trunk, not willing to take any chances on them being something that could hinder him. Sigils were powerful – even more so when drawn when blood – and the fact that the creature _knew this_ only showed just how dangerous it was.

 

“ _... It smells too much like a trap, ya idjit, don't go...”_

 

He had three different guns. One silver, the other consecrated iron, the third rock salt. He had six different kinds of knife on him, of every different material he could think of, almost all dipped in holy water. If none of that worked, he knew exorcisms better than Bobby, from Latin to Sumerian to Old Arabic, to deal with demons of all strength, including the Fallen, _and_ the powerful Djinn's of Islamic Lore that were constantly mistaken for demons. John was prepared, he could do this, he could gank this ugly son of a bitch and find out where the bastard had stashed his kids at too. Then he'd drive there without stopping, find his boys, and put this all behind him like a bad chapter.

 

No other options.

 

He loaded all three up, made sure every single one of his weapons were in the same perfect condition he'd left them in, then moved forwards towards the cabin's lone entrance. Best bet he had was to take the creature by surprise, go in there gun blazing, shooting silver bullets from his right hand and rock salt from his left, because the creatures usually affected by silver had no qualms with rock salt, and the creatures usually affected by rock salt and no qualms with silver. If neither of them worked, he'd unload consecrated iron into the son of a bitch, and work from there. 

 

With that in mind, he prepared himself, slowed down his breathing till it barely made a sound, then sprang forward and kicked the cabin's door down with his thick boot. The door splintered apart, just as he knew he would, and he pushed right through the jagged remains into the cabin, eyes sweeping through the place until they landed on the shocked figure of... of...

 

_Dean._

 

The sight was like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath and forcing him to falter for a moment, and that momentary pause of surprise was enough time for the creature _still wearing his first born's face_ to scramble to his feet.

 

“Dad...”

 

Shit, John thought wildly, the bastard was still using that game. Of course he was, no normal father would ever be able to shoot something that even _looked_ like their son, but John was a hunter, John was a damn good hunter, and John knew this wasn't his boy, but the thing that _took his boys_ away from him.

 

“You sonuvabitch!” He snarled viciously, aiming both guns at the bastard's wide eyes. “ _What did you do to my boys?_ ”

 

The creature's palms came up, devoid of any weapon, held out to keep John from shooting. “Dad, calm down.” The bastard continued. “I'm not... I'm not a-” Something creaked, catching the monster's attention, but John wasn't wont to be distracted by a parlour trick like that. Instead, he watched as the thing parading as his son tensed, body going taut just like Dean's did, eyes widening and fixing on something just behind John's shoulder. It was like a stupid trick of “look over there”, using the distraction to run away, something so _human_ and below anything a demon or something working with one would do. And that's when he heard it-

 

“Hello, Johnny,”

 

And that's when he smelt it-

 

“Fancy seeing you here.”

 

 _Rotten eggs_.

. . .

 

Oh, oh, _oh,_ the _faces_ – priceless, really. Azazel grinned, flashing teeth at the two Winchester's staring at him in mute shock. He climbed into the cabin, raising his legs higher than usual to avoid the annoying bits of wood still clinging to the frame of what had once been the door, chuckling to himself a little. “Oh, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.” He tutted, brushing off some imaginary lint from his jacket. “It's been a while, hasn't it? What, maybe about... Sixteen years? Almost seventeen?”

 

He confidently strolled into the cabin, looking around the place with a critical eye. The place was even more run down than he'd have thought. “My, what a lovely little place you have here.” A pause. “Very... _Lived in_.”

 

John's head swivelled over to his son, only barely able to keep a hold on his emotions. “So you _are_ working for the demon, you bastard.” He growled out, which most certainly caught Azazel's waning attention.

 

Slightly surprised by the words, he turned to look at the mentioned eldest with raised eyebrows, looking up and down in silent appraisal. “You?” He questioned incredulously, jabbing a finger in Dean's direction and looking to John. “Him? Evil? Is this some twenty first century joke? He sure as hell isn't working for me.” Before either of the two could respond, he waved a hand, pushing them both towards opposite sides of the room. They landed with a satisfying thud, Dean especially cracking his skull against the wall a bit more forcefully than Azazel intended. Oh, who was he kidding? He completely intended it, if only to get rid of the most pressing amount of violence he had for the boy. “Now, now, I'm sure we can all chat. I just need to know something right of the bat.”

 

“I'm going to fucking kill you.” John hissed from his place, all bravado and bark, but no bite. “I swear to _God-_ ”

 

“Sorry Johnny boy.” He chirped. “Seems like your god isn't in the building. See, I don't think you _have_ that little ol' gun you've been searching for lately. You know, something a little birdy told me about? The Colt? Meaning you can't do jacksquat.”

 

John froze, face going blank.

 

And Azazel just smiled.

 

“Yep. Thought so. Can't find it, can you? Went disappearing after your friend Elkins got munched on by some conveniently placed vampires, huh? A shame, really. Let's hope for your sake your _other..._ friends... don't meet the same fate.”

 

He spun on his heels, turning his back to a seething John, and swaggered up to a surprisingly silent Dean. From what he knew of the boy – which was very little considering he'd never cared much for the waste before that whole 'let's hide Sammy' thing – Deano was just as much as a brave talker as his papa, with even less bite than a chihuahua. “So, little guard dog. Where is he?”

 

Dean replied by spitting at him.

 

Azazel laughed, wiping away the remnants from his cheek and flicking it off towards the floor. He shared a glance with John – at least, he _tried_ to share a glance with John, but John was being a bit too stubborn and didn't feel like commemorating with him on the humour behind Dean's actions – and applied a bit more pressure to Dean's ribs, forcing them to slightly cave in. Smiling as Dean hissed in pain, Azazel leaned in closer, eyes blinking a murky deep yellow, before speaking up.

 

“Oh, boy.” He purred, voice a deep, low, vibration. “You really thought you could hide Sam from me, Dean?” A gasp of surprise came from behind, and _this_ time, Azazel successfully shared a glance with John. “I wondered why the guard dog wasn't trailing after your tail, John, I really did. What? Did he hide little Sammy from you too? Real bitchy move, isn't it?”

 

John looked so torn, pushed up against the wall as he was, realising he'd been wrong on whatever it was he'd been threatening Dean with. From what Azazel had heard, poor little Johnny had thought something looking like his little soldier had up and taken his two boys, because surely Dean would never betray him and run off with Sam. Oh no, of course it had to be something _else_ that did it. Azazel snorted to himself, chuckling a bit at all the family drama he'd apparently walked in on – but hey, he'd seen his chance when the cabin had suddenly lit up like a homing beacon thanks to the blood his daughter had swiped from the boy. Even if that had been _months_ ago, and Dean was surprisingly very good at hiding himself. And maybe even good at a little exorcism here and there – he _really_ didn't like having his daughter sent back to Hell – especially when she said she had news on the littlest Winchester's location.

 

Good thing good ol' John had broken that stealth sigil. _And_ that weakening one. Ouch, if that had still been in place, things would've been far more irritating, and then he wouldn't have been able to _enjoy_ all this _fun_ the Winchester's were bestowing upon him.

 

“Speaking of family,” Azazel piped up, stroking Dean's jaw with a finger. “I hope you know you're both going to die here today. Especially you, Deano. Can't have you running around like you are. Way too much of a liability, really.”

 

Dean bared his teeth, the intimidating gesture weakened by the red life fluid trickling down his chin. Azazel eased up a bit on the pressure, having forgotten himself for a moment there, and only grinned harder. “I'll make it quick though, if you tell me where he is. Your cute little brother. _Where_ ,” he clawed into Dean's insides, rupturing something. “ _Is,_ ” Dean gritted his teeth, hissing and spitting out the blood that instantly welled up in his mouth. _“He?_ ”

 

“Let him go you bitch!”

 

“Oh, shut up John.”

 

“ _Urgh!_ ”

 

The grunt had Dean rearing from the wall, trying to push past the paralyses holding him there, eyes wide and staring at his convulsing father. “D-Dad!”

 

“How cute.” Azazel chuckled, patting Dean on the chest like a close friend. “But it's just you, me, and the old man here, Dean. And I've got _all the time in the world_ to get you speaking.”

 

He grinned, sharp and bright, flashing teeth at the younger Winchester.

 

“Too bad your daddy doesn't.”

. . .

**Friday, April 30** **th** **, 12:14pm:**

 

The gate slid open without even a rattle, letting him slip through towards the large doors. His motorcycle came to a stop and he kicked out the foot rest to keep him still, pulling off his helmet at the same time. The Westchester Manor still looked the same after four months of being away from it, still standing and without a scratch mark, and Logan finally felt some of his apprehension ease.

 

Sliding off the motorcycle, he rested the helmet against his hip and walked towards the garage, keying in the code and waiting for the door to open up. Once done, he closed it back shut and walked through towards the door leading to the mansion, climbing a few stairs to come out into the bright light of the kitchen. A few of the staff were milling around, probably getting snacks and little things for the kids to eat ready, and Logan grunted his acknowledgement when Jenny visibly brightened up and waved at him, and Laura told him to move it with a jab of a pointed knife.

 

He left the kitchen, entering out into one of many hallways, and weaved through the maze that was the mansion until he ended up right at the Professor's office. Without knocking, he let himself in, the apprehension he'd been feeling ever since that creepy looking house back in January with the black eyed chick coming back in a tidal wave of pressure. He could see the Professor looking surprised, he could see the Professor about to speak, and he had it all planned, everything he was going to say, word for word to make the Professor believe him, and all of that preparation over the long drive back here went down the sink the moment he opened his mouth and just _blurted_ a string of pure nonsense.

 

“Logan,” The Professor interrupted, eyes wide with concern. “Logan, slow down.”

 

“... iron and rock salt and _werewolves_ – actual, real, goddamn _werewolves,_ and not just little fakes like me running around, ripping people apart and eating their hearts – and you have to shoot them with silver just like shapeshifters who are really fucking _psycho_ and-”

 

“-Logan!”

 

Holding his hands out, Logan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Look, Professor, just read my mind.”

 

“That is...”

 

“Ain't no other way I can think of telling ya, prof. So come on, read it.”

 

Charles frowned, looking worried for a moment before nodding, and lifted two fingers up to his forehead. Immediately, Logan felt himself get pulled back to the night he'd driven up to the creepy looking house, to the pale, flickering woman screaming and shrieking, to Dean tumbling down the stairs with two shotguns at hand, to the demon chick, to driving off with Dean telling him everything, to the few hunts he'd accompanied the kid and realised said kid was caught up in some deep shit to do with the demon that had killed their mother, to _everything_.

 

Suddenly, he came back to himself, gasping and slapping at his chest to steady his breathing. A quick glance at the Professor showed him Charles looking pale, eyes tight with the new knowledge.

 

“Oh my,” he breathed, massaging at his temples. “This... This is quite unexpected...”

 

Snorting – because wasn't _that_ an understatement – Logan collapsed into one of the too-soft chairs in the office.

 

“Actually...” The professor murmured to himself, looking up with a thoughtful expression. “This reminds me of our new mutant.”

 

Logan cocked an eyebrow. “What new mutant?”

 

The professor waved a thin delicate hand as if to push Logan's question away. “Jessica Moore. She came here after being attacked. I do believe her attacker might be responsible for the recent deaths of multiple mutants across the state, Logan. Have you heard of it?”

 

With the second eyebrow rising up to meet the first, Logan sat up in his chair. “You don't mean... The ones where there's some sort of malfunction and the house catches on fire?”

 

Charles nodded. “Yes, those. I'm surprised it's caught your attention.”

 

Of course it had, Dean had all but gone berserk when he'd found out about it. Logan still didn't know why those particular events had caught the guy's attention – they were all ruled as accidents weren't they? Usually, kid looked for the strange stuff, the weird crap like a buncha guys dying on a certain stretch of road. “Didn't know they were all mutants.” He muttered.

 

“Perhaps this ties in together...? Let me call her in.” The professor continued on musing, obviously not hearing Logan's muttered words. He shrugged in lieu of a reply, figuring listening to this new kid retell her story couldn't hurt. If she mentioned black eyes or black smoke, then they had a big, _big_ , problem. And if she didn't, well, then it was just some normal sick fuck then, wasn't it?

 

He lounged about, feeling better for having told the professor everything there was to tell, wondering what Dean was up to then. Now that he understood the sorta crap life their bastard of a Dad had raised them in, Logan thought he could understand a bit more of the younger kid, Sam, and that wary, grown up expression he got sometimes. Dean had the same face, more thunderous and rare, only appearing for a split second before disappearing.

 

A knock sounded on the door, three strong rasps, that gained the professor's admittance. The door opened up slightly, a head of long blonde hair popping in before the girl fully stepped inside, looking nervous but confident. She didn't look like much – not to Logan, anyway – slightly willowy, maybe sixteen, seventeen, more prone to doing her nails up then fighting and escaping something that _might_ be a demon, but if she was a mutant, then she probably had a good enough power to help her escape.

 

“Ah, Ms. Moore, please, sit.” The teenager walked towards them, sitting on a chair next to Logan with only a suspicious glance his way. Logan didn't bother trying to be polite and smile, just lazily waved a hand in her general direction and considered his social duty fulfilled. Charles frowned at his lack of etiquette, but didn't press, instead steeping his fingers together and turning to face Jessica. “Ms. Moore, I do apologise for having to ask this of you again, but if you could please tell us about what happened to you again? It's imperative you leave _no_ information out, even the most absurd.”

 

She eyed them both warily, thinking about it before nodding. “He just... Blasted through the front door like it was paper.” She started off, shrugging in agitation. “I'd never seen him before, and I didn't know what he wanted until he just looked at me and, and, and, called me _wrong_.” A hiccup; wringing her hands together. “ _Nothing_ hurt him, not knives, not even my fire-”

 

Oh. So kid had fire going on for her. Damn, that had _got_ to be nice.

 

“-he just _shrugged it all off_ , and threw his hand at me and I just hit a wall. I don't know how, or why, but he was going to _kill me_ , he even said it. He asked me what I wanted my last words to be.” She looked up, establishing eye contact with them, her own wide and watery with residual fear. “He- he- _did something_ , I don't know _what_ , but it felt like I couldn't breathe, and that something was about to start tearing at my stomach, and then he just says it's my lucky day, and that he's not going to kill me.”

 

“Why do you think he did that, Ms. Moore? Why you?”

 

“I don't know!” She cried, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation. “You don't think I've been asking myself that ever since I got the hell out of there? As long as _it_ stays the hell away from me, I've decided I don't care!” She got up, tugging at her clothes and nervously straightening them out. “That _thing_ wasn't human. Nobody has that much power, not even us, and- and- and- he had _yellow eyes_.”

 

 _That_ got Logan and the professor's attention, both of them looking at her in confusion. “You mean like Nightcrawler?” Logan asked, wondering what the deal with yellow eyes could be. Plus yellow eyes? Not a demon then. Still a threat though.

 

But Jessica shook her head, hair swaying side to side with the movement. “No, at first I thought it was like him, but more murky... Like... _Dirty_ , you know? And not all the time, sometimes it was normal, other times, yellow.”

 

Charles nodded, despite Logan feeling very adequately like he _didn't_ know. Grunting in lieu of actually answering, Logan turned to the professor with a shake of his head. “Not one of them, then. They had black eyes and exploded in black smoke-”

 

“-Yeah!” Jessica interrupted, jumping on the balls of her feet. “After he let me go, he like, _vomited_ out of his body in a... a... a... torrent! Yeah, a _torrent_ of black smoke! And it was churning and disgusting and disappeared off while the body dropped like a sack of potatoes.”

 

Sharing a glance, Logan sat back and watched as the professor turned to his still steeped fingers, brows furrowing together in thought. “Hmm,” he hummed. “This is incredibly troubling news...”

 

Logan didn't know anything about a demon having yellow eyes. Were they maybe a different rank? Weaker? Did it mean _anything_ other than just something weird like preference? He shrugged to himself, not having an answer, because he didn't _know this shit_. Only ones who knew it were the Winchester's and all those other crazy bastards calling themselves Hunter-

 

-“Sam.”

 

Charles looked up to him, expression confused. “What did you say, Logan?”

 

“Sam.” He repeated himself, sitting up in his chair. “This is their family stuff, right? They know this shit, they _grew up_ with this shit and were dealing with it long before they came here. Sam would know if this yellow eyed bastard is the same deal or something even worse.”

 

So they called Sam, and Jessica seated herself back on her chair again, and they waited until Sam came. The boy took longer than Jessica had, peeking through the door Jessica had left open and waiting until Charles gestured him in. It was obvious from Sam's face he didn't know why he was there, and damn, the kid had gotten taller. _And_ bigger.

 

On spotting Jessica, Sam smiled awkwardly, getting a shy smile in return, which all had Logan staring at the two in begrudged amusement at the little hearts flying between them. Charles coughed pointedly, giving Logan a stern look for his enjoyment of their teenage woes, and smiled becomingly at Sam.

 

“Is something wrong?” Sam asked carefully, eyes taking in Logan without giving away any reaction.

 

Jessica nodded at him, eyes confused but sharp. “I-It's about that guy, the one that attacked me. I told them everything I told you.”

 

Logan turned sharply to face her, noticing only moments after Charles calm nod and cursing in his head. The professor _knew_ she'd told Sam, probably took a look inside or whatever it is mind readers like him and Jean did, and found out about it, so now Logan was literally the only one that hadn't known.

 

 _Calm down, Logan,_ the professor's voice slithered in between his ears. _This makes matters far more easier for us._

 

The kid awkwardly shifted on his foot, looking between Charles and Logan with a small frown. “And...?”

 

Exasperated, Logan threw himself back in his seat, getting comfortable. “We know 'bout demons, kid. Don't have to try that stupid little innocent game. We just need to know if they're the ones killin' mutants round the country.”

 

Finally, the kid's expression broke, surprise filtering across his face and making him look just as young as he was. “Wha...?” He gaped, staring at Logan wide eyed. “Wait, how do you know about demons?” He turned to the professor, still surprised. “Since when did you learn about demons?”

 

“Sam,” the professor soothed, keeping his voice low and serious. “It's come to our recent attention that there's been a series of fires around the country – all presumed accidents – that have killed mutants. Do you maybe know anything about them...?”

 

The kid's mouth shut tight, eyes shutting close in despair. He leaned on the chair Jessica was sitting on, causing the girl to worry and touch him lightly on the arm, but didn't respond for a while.

 

Logan clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth together at the obvious display of knowledge – just like the way Dean had reacted when he'd read a random little blurb inside a newspaper to a lost loved one. He couldn't tell what it was that had the two kids worked up, but it was something big alright, something huge.

 

“What is it?” He snapped, all pretence that this was something _normal_ or maybe _manageable_ flying out of the window.

 

Sam swallowed once before getting a grip on himself, opening his eyes but not looking up. “Our mom was killed by a demon.” He admitted quietly, staring down at his feet.

 

Logan stared at the kid, turning over to look at an equally befuddled Charles, before something clicked in his head and he looked back at Sam. “Let me guess, a fire accident.”

 

Sam nodded, lips tugging down in a frown. “They said it was an accident, even though the fire originated on the ceiling and they found traces of her there too. Dad's been searching for the demon since.”

 

“My God.” Charles breathed, once more looking pale at the information.

 

Logan cursed, everything suddenly making sense. A demon – one certain demon with a fondness for burning his victims – had killed the kid's mother. The dad had gone on a revenge spree, training up his kids in the art of dealing with monsters and fairytale creatures so they could all be prepared. Sam's a mutant, him and Dean kept it from their Dad, then Dad found out and Sam and Dean came here. Dean left Sam here, then went back out to do what he'd been raised to do, and ever since that demon chick popped up and tried intimidating an answer out of Dean, he'd stumbled his way into finding the trail of the thing that had killed his Mom.

 

Sam must've been thinking the exact same thing, because his hazel slanted eyes widened dramatically, body going taut with tension as he stared at an increasingly agitated Logan. “Oh shit,” he murmured, colour draining from his face. “Oh shit, does Dean know about this?”

 

Running a hand through his hair, Logan cursed himself again for not wondering why Dean had pushed him to come check in with the professor, make sure everyone was OK, filling him up with bull just to get him to leave.

 

“Yeah...” He finally answered, running a hand through his hair. “I think he does.”


	5. Chapter 5

“ _When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life.” - Antisthenes_

**Monday, May 2** **nd** **, 4:45am:**

 

“Tick tock, tick tock,” Azazel tutted, staring at the watch around his wrist. “Literally two hours, ma boy. I'm surprised you haven't died of blood loss yet.” He peered further down from the watch, eyeing the pool of blood steadily growing in size around Dean's feet, already seeping into the material of his current body's meat-suit. It wasn't the same as last time – no charming smile or twinkly eyes to get the ladies to open up their doors, unfortunately – but a normal, middle aged looking fella, one who might even pass off as a hunter. Daniel Elkins sure had been fooled.

 

Even if, in the end, Azazel still didn't have what he'd been searching for. _Either_ of the things he'd been searching for.

 

“Leave him alone, you bastard! Dean!”

 

Sighing, Azazel turned round to face Daddy Winchester, rolling his eyes in exasperation at all the threats _still_ being hurled his way. John didn't have the Colt, Azazel didn't have the Colt, then _who did_? He'd been so sure Elkins had had it, which was why he'd clued those accursed vampires to his location, letting them have their fun with him. But the Colt hadn't been anywhere in that ramshackle hut some called a house. And _really_ , considering Elkin's had been John's only clue too, it was real frustrating to not have it in his hands.

 

Oh well, at least he'd get Sammy.

 

As soon as he could get Dean here to speak, anyway.

 

“Maybe I should just possess you and get it over with.” He mused, tapping at his chin in thought. “I _did_ say I had all the time in the world, not to mention that your daddy didn't, but I haven't really touched John other than to shut him up now and then, have I?”

 

“You bastard- _Agh!_ ”

 

“See?” Azazel questioned, holding his hand still while it was angled in John's direction. “Like that. How about this, boy,” John gurgled in the background, desperately searching for air as Azazel squeezed his hand and systematically closed the older hunter's windpipe. “How long do you think Johnny here can hold his breath? One minute? One minute and a half?”

 

Dean struggled to raise his head, blood loss making him weak and exhausted, blood covered lips moving to form words with no sound. Azazel leaned in close, crowding up into Dean's space, not missing the flicker of disgust in the jade eyes, and dropped his face to Dean's sagging form, pressing his ear in close. “What did you say?” He purred, anticipation thrumming in his meat-suit’s veins. “Are you going to let me strangle your papa to death? Kill him like I killed your mommy?”

 

Dean didn't respond immediately – how could he? Waste of skin was barely hanging on to life by a thread – but after before a minute could be up and John's noises had progressively gotten more urgent before dying down, Dean moved his head in the tiniest fraction to signal a nod, and Azazel eased up on the pressure on John's windpipe, ignoring the immediate gasps of air the man busied himself with.

 

“Excellent choice there, Deano. Promise you won't regret it.” He grinned instead, patting Dean on the chest again. “Now, where's your sweet little brother?”

 

A wheeze, then, “Don't you tell him... Don't- Dean-” And John dissolved into coughs, wheezing in the end.

 

Azazel just smiled, held up his hand and waited. Dean's head lolled to the side, too heavy for the weakened boy to lift, but those green eyes – brighter now with the skin so pale – glared at Azazel with a glazed and unfocused look, still so passionate despite his impending death. When a few seconds ticked by and Dean had yet to speak, Azazel clucked his tongue and clicked his fingers right in front of Dean's face, bringing the glazed focus back to the present from wherever they'd faded off to. The rotten stench of sulphur grew heavily in the air, tickling Azazel's nose in greeting, just as John's breath hitched in surprise. 

 

Dean's eyes closed and opened, widening as soon as they landed on whatever was behind Azazel's shoulder, the expression in those eyes transforming from determination to grief and despair. “N-No... S'm...”

 

Curious as to what stupid demon would interrupt him while in the process of something so _monumental_ , Azazel turned around to face the newcomer. What he saw in front of him – no, _who_ he saw in front of him – well, it made _all this_ worth it, because standing in front of him in the middle of the cabin was one Samuel Winchester, and something blue that smelt of half abomination and half demon. With yellow eyes. And blue skin.

 

Huh. Well will you look at that.

 

Azazel chuckled, turning around and sweeping his arms out like a kind host. “And what do we have here? Sammy, oh Sammy, how I've been searching for you.” He cooed, curling a finger in Sam's direction. The same finger became an arrow, pointing at the half breed with the wrong allegiance. “And you, my, how you took after your mother.”

 

The blue thing went pale (pale! Hah!) and took a step backwards, all but hiding behind the surprisingly tall figure of Sam.

 

“You're not even human, y'know.” Azazel continued on, curious despite himself. He could remember the thing's mother – an abomination, but a _clever_ abomination, with the ability to change herself to look like anyone without the disgusting side effects of being a shapeshifter, – and how he'd been curious about what would happen if you mixed demon with mutant. _That_ had been a bit before the whole plan with infecting normal human kids with his blood, of course, back in his heydays, if you would, but he'd completely forgotten about _this_ thing all but as soon as he'd left its mother.

 

The thing didn't look like it wanted to reply, which worked just as well for Azazel, since obviously _that_ experiment had gone pathetically wrong, but oh well, Azazel's focus was completely on Sam now. His little protégé that would _not_ be infected by these _freaks_ of nature. Good humour gone from his meat-suit’s face, Azazel smiled cruelly and took a step towards them.

 

In response, Sam's right hand disappeared into the jacket he was wearing, coming out again with a gun in hand. Azazel had seen a lot of guns in his time, had actually been there to witness when they'd first been made – hell, he'd _helped_ with that little endeavour, actually. One of his best crowning moments that even the _Bible_ got right in the end – but he immediately knew this wasn't a gun he'd seen before, but one he'd only _heard of_.

 

John grunted, eyes wide and locked onto the gun, recognising it just like Azazel had done. “T-The Colt.” He wheezed out, windpipe still too injured to speak properly. “Where?”

 

The infamous gun was shifted until Sam had a stronger grip on it, professionally aiming it right between Azazel's eyes. “Had a vision of Daniel Elkins and vampires.” Sam calmly said, voice low and aimed directly at Azazel. “Had a word with him before he died. Got this in return.”

 

So _that_ was why those stupid demons hadn't been able to get the Colt after the vampires had done away with him. Azazel quirked an eyebrow, impressed despite himself, and almost purred at the boy on the cusp of being a man standing in front of him so proudly. “My, how you've grown, Sammy boy.” Then he flicked his wrist, and put power behind it to throw the boy and his little demonic halfling friend towards the door, smiling wildly as he did.

 

But besides the blue thing jerking in his place and disappearing in a plume of foul smelling sulphur, nothing happened. Samuel Winchester continued standing tall with the Colt in his grip – the one gun that could kill him permanently – and Azazel's powers didn't work on him. Sam grinned smugly at him, unaffected by Azazel's decreasing good humour, and cocked the safety off of the gun.

 

Irritation curled low and hot inside what passed as Azazel's stomach, churning with the prospect of danger the gun represented. But he smiled, never one to count his eggs before they'd hatched, and reached backwards to curl his fingers around Dean's neck, squeezing just a bit to get an audible hitch of breath. Immediately, just as he'd predicted, Sam faltered, gun dropping just an inch lower before snapping back up to aim at Azazel's head – but the damage had already been done.

 

Azazel could break Dean's neck _and_ get away before Sam even pulled the trigger. And despite the boy's inactivity in the supernatural and hunting world, he knew this too.

 

“Now, let's stop all this nonsense.” Azazel said, holding his free hand out towards Sam, palm up. “Why don't you just give me that gun and I'll go. Leave your family alone for a few years, come back when you're a bit older.”

 

Sam frowned, eyes darting between Dean and Azazel, a glint behind his hazel eyes that spoke of a mind working to fix things as best as he could. “Demons lie.” Sam firmly replied, two words to encompass everything.

 

Azazel grinned, showing off his meat-suit's white teeth – a middle aged dentist with an ex-wife and a dog – and tutted in reproach. “Oh, but Sammy, I haven't lied yet have I? Besides, believe it or not but you Winchester's have grown on me, killing you now would mean the next ten years would be boring.” 

 

Swallowing thickly, the youngest Winchester struggled to decide what to do next.

 

“What'll it be, Sammy boy?” Azazel pressed, squeezing his fingers round the boy's older brother's throat, hearing Dean's breathing hitch in protest. “You gonna kill me and your big brother here? Or you gonna hand over that gun and save your whole family?”

. . .

**Friday, April 30** **th** **, 3:40pm:**

 

“I-I can't believe it.” Jess whispered harshly, fidgeting in her seat as the kitchen staff passed plates of food around. “ _Monsters_. Real. And your family hunts them.”

 

Sam sat beside her, frowning down at the apple pie placed in front of him for dessert, his mind still stuck on the conversation in the professor's office. He hummed distractedly at her in lieu of a reply, playing around with the pie without eating it. When Jess elbowed him in the ribs, Sam grunted in pain and turned to look at her. “What?”

 

“ _Monsters_.” She repeated, the one word explaining it all. “None of my fire worked on the demon.”

 

Sam indulged her with a nod, deciding to partake in the conversation by explaining his theory on why it hadn't. “Probably because demons are from Hell, and Hellfire is a whole different level than normal fire.”

 

With a blonde strand of her hair wrapped around her index finger, Jess peered up at Sam with narrowed eyes, thought on it, then decided it seemed like a perfect explanation and returned to her own pie. “And you think your brother knows the demon's out there and is going after him?” He nodded, finally taking a bite of the apple pie and almost vomiting it straight out. One of Jess' – Jessica Moore, a teenager just like him with abilities to ignite and control fire, wants to grow up to be a nurse – hands touched his own, her eyes staring at him. Sam could feel blood draining into his cheeks, flushing them red at the attention on him, and it didn't help that he had a crush on her since she'd first arrived. “Is he going to be OK?” She asked, sounding genuinely worried for his brother.

 

Not knowing the real answer to it, Sam nodded, refusing to entertain the thoughts that maybe Dean wouldn't. “He'll be fine. Dean's the best hunter out there.”

 

“And you?”

 

Sam paused, looking her in the eye for something and not finding it. “What do you mean?”

 

Jess grinned, the worry turning to sly in the blink of an eye. “You're really just gonna sit here in a mansion and do nothing while your brother's out there hunting down the demon that killed your mom?”

 

He had to give it to her, she was smart – something he already knew – and quick on the draw too. “Nope.” Sam admitted, shyly returning the grin. “I've been doing research on demons anyway, and I think I know a way to help my brother, but it's a bit difficult.”

 

“Yeah?” Jess replied, beaming in a way that had Sam's stomach doing an awkward flip. She leaned in close so their conversation couldn't be overheard by the other students and teachers milling around the long table, Sam following suit until their heads almost touched. “Come on, spill. At the very least I might be able to burn something for you.”

 

He laughed despite himself, loosening up with her humour but still keeping his voice low, both of them whispering to each other furiously to be heard over the chatter. “There's a gun out there rumoured to be able to kill anything – including demons. It was made by a guy named Samuel Colt, but nobody knows if it's even real or just a pipe dream. I think it's real though – the amount of recorded details on it support it being legit, and if it is, then it's the only thing in existence able to kill a demon.”

 

“You have any idea where it might be right now?” Jess hushed back, eyes wide with interest.

 

Sam shook his head no, lips pulling down into a fierce scowl. Because the truth was, besides knowing of its existence, he had no clue where it might be. He'd spent hours pouring everything he could get his hands on about it, about its possible location, but with the amount of luck he had had he might as well have been searching for Excalibur. At least that would've been a lot easier. Jess patted his hand consolingly, smiling at him with sympathy, but not pity. An ache started at the back of his head, just a small flare of pain that quickly came and went, but Jess saw the brief wince on his face all the same. “You OK?”

 

“Yeah,” Sam was quick to reassure her, too used to the brief flashes of headaches he was getting lately. “I'm fine--”

 

\--God, his _head_.

 

The pain hit him like a freight train, taking him by surprise and pounding in his head. Sam doubled over, a gasp escaping him followed by a groan, hands scrabbling at his head to try and _stop it_ , to try and get rid of whatever it was that _hurt_. Flashes of images exploded in his mind's eye – a wooden cabin, a highway sign, a middle aged man, a silver gun, the cabin's door opening with a crack, group of people, _teeth_ , blood _everywhere_ – and then the pain disappeared.

 

Just like that, disappeared.

 

His hearing came next, Jess' frantic voice in his ear, Doctor Hank sending someone for water, the buzz of other kids whispering to each other. He could smell pie, apple pie, and suddenly remembered he was at _lunch_ , and had just been talking to Jess when his head suddenly-

 

-a vision. He'd just had a vision. A vision of a man in a cabin getting attacked by a group of people with sharp teeth – _supernatural_. He hadn't had a vision in ages; not since Dean left, yet something niggled at the back of his mind, something important, something about the gun. Long and silver, it had something engraved on it, but what kind of a gun was it? Sam sat up slowly, waving away everyone's concern, still aching head trying to figure out what the gun he'd seen was. Something coppery and metallic filled his mouth, coming from his upper lip, and he touched it with a finger and looked down to see what it was. Blood. Yeah, he'd forgotten about the nosebleeds – he certainly didn't miss _this_ part about getting visions.

 

That's when it hit him, just as Nightcrawler – Kurt Wagner – popped in with the water. The gun he'd seen was a Colt Revolver – and the chances of Sam just _happening_ to have a vision of a guy getting ripped to pieces over a gun he had _hid_ (because he had, Sam remembered, he'd seen the man hide it underneath the floorboards), a gun that just happened to have the same name as the legendary Colt, was far too much of a coincidence. Sam grabbed a tissue and held it against his nose, grinning wildly over at a still worried Jess.

 

“I know where the Colt is.”

. . .

**Monday, May 2** **nd** **, 5:57am:**

 

“ _What'll it be, Sammy boy?” Azazel pressed, squeezing his fingers round the boy's older brother's throat. “You gonna kill me and your big brother here? Or you gonna hand over that gun and save your whole family?”_

 

“And how about you, Johnny boy?” The demon continued, flashing a sharp grin at the suspended John Winchester. “Keeping quiet over there aren't you? Don't you want me dead? Finally end it all and avenge your sweet, sweet, Mary?”

 

John clenched his fists, struggling to fight against the force still holding him up against the wall, eyes burning fiercely at the yellow eyed demon. His stare darted to his oldest – the one he'd considered a monster for so many years, the one he'd _hunted down_ and chased after with the intent to kill – and all he could see was his little boy with the freckles and big green eyes who grew up too fast and too much for the world. When he turned to look at Sam – Sam, who he'd only last seen when he was fourteen – he saw a tall gangly teen growing into his bones, holding the legendary Colt – _the Colt!_ \- that John had been searching for ever since hearing about it – the way John had taught him to, hesitating on pulling the trigger as to not hurt his brother.

 

Sam's slanted eyes – the eyes he'd gotten from John, the depths he'd gotten from Mary – met John's own, a little boy asking his father what to do swimming inside it. “Dad?”

 

He didn't doubt the demon, didn't doubt that the yellow eyed bastard could kill his eldest _and_ escape before Sam even pulled the trigger. But this was _The Demon_ here, the one he'd been chasing for the past sixteen years, the one he'd trained his sons (to the best of his ability) to keep them protected from.

 

“How about we ask Dean?” The demon suggested, pretending to be sympathetic to their plight with furrowed eyebrows. He turned to Dean, jostling the boy by the neck, the glimpse of bruises igniting a fire of loathing in John's stomach. “Say, Dean. What do you think? Wanna die tonight? Should Sam pull the trigger?”

 

Dean's eyes slithered open, pale green peaking in through the lids, using whatever energy he still had to work his lips. “D-Do it... Sammy.”

 

As soon as Dean spoke, John wanted to kill himself for even _thinking_ of sacrificing his son. Because this was Dean, his first born, his eldest, his little soldier and confidant and the one person in the world – to this day – he could say he trusted _everything_ with. “God,” he choked out, eyes watering up in guilt. “Don't, Sam. Don't do it.”

 

Dean's eyes opened up further, a spark lighting up inside them as his face twisted into annoyance. “D-Do it.” He countered, aiming his words to Sam, locking his eyes with his younger brother for emphasis. “ _Do it_.”

 

The gun wobbled in Sam's grasp, indecision making the young boy glance between his father and brother, searching for something. John tried to get Sam to lower it, to just hand it over – it wasn't _worth it_ , dammit – with more platitudes, with more coaxing to just follow The Demon's order. But Sam took one long hard look at Dean, a conversation passing between them without words just like _always_ , and gripped the Colt harder, face turning to a mask of stone, and aiming it right back at The Demon's face.

 

The Demon cursed, face twisting in anger before transforming to shock, mouth gaping open to the sky as the body went taut, and John shouted a warning as black smoke billowed out of the possessed man's mouth, pooling around the ceiling before lunging back down towards Dean. Horror gripped John tight, the idea that he might have to kill his son anyway making his blood go cold, but the black smoke bounced off from Dean harmlessly, unable to enter, hesitated for a moment as they – John and Sam stared shock, then dove towards John himself. The black smoke – The Demon – was across the room in seconds, lightning flashing through the dark clouds, when a loud rapport rang out, the sound of a gun going off, and the smoke _jerked_ in the air. John's head swivelled away from what had been an oncoming demonic possession, landing first onto his eldest, seeing Dean still slumped against the wall, then to his youngest where Sam had dropped the Colt and had his hand stretched out, fingers curling into a fist with deep concentration etched onto his face.

 

The black smoke – The Demon – crackled with lights, glowing in pulses, not like the normal method of light shows going on in it; and John stared as the pulses, the lights, became more frequent, grew stronger in strength until the smoke – The Demon – began _disintegrating_ into thin air, and Sam gasped in what must have been pain from _whatever it was he was doing_ , and with a final crackle, a final glowing throb, the smoke just _cleared_.

 

Immediately, whatever had been holding him up disappeared, taking John by surprise and dropping him to the floor. Across from him, Dean quietly slumped to the ground, the proverbial puppet's strings cut off, and the black smoke – _The Demon –_ was gone, nowhere in sight, _gone_. John stared at the space where it'd been, where the monster he'd been hunting for _years_ had been, then speechlessly turned to stare at his panting youngest.

 

Across the cabin, at the opposite wall, Dean raised a hand before dropping it to the floor, breaking the silence with a croaked, “Happy Seventeen, Sammy.”

 

And the quiet _broke_.

 

“Dean!”

 

“Son!”

 

The two staggered towards Dean, dropping beside him and carefully rolling him over to his back. Their hands came away drenched with blood, the material at their knees suffering from the same fate, and Dean only responded to the movement with a low groan of pain.

 

John cursed. “Shit. This is bad.”

 

“I-I should get Kurt.” Sam stammered, holding Dean's head back to free his airway. 

 

John glanced up, taking in Sam's pale face and wide frightened eyes, and found it wasn't too hard to smile at his youngest. “You've grown, Sammy.” 

 

Sam flushed beet red, carefully putting Dean's head down on the floor, before wrapping his arms around his father's neck in a tight squeeze. “It's good to see you too, Dad.” Then he pushed up to his feet and with a furtive glance to Dean's supine form ran to the door.

 

Finding himself calmed by the hug, John only spared a glance to Sam's retreating back and wondered for a moment who Kurt was – whether or not it had been the blue thing that had brought his son here – before focusing his complete attention on Dean. He patted his son down carefully, removing the outer layer of his flannel, getting it out of the way and refusing to think about the amount of blood they were both surrounded in. Sam came running back in, helping John to prop Dean up and get a hold under his armpits, hauling him up to his feet. Between the both of them, they were able to get Dean out of the cabin just in time to hear the roar of the wind picking up. If you kept tracking through the forest, as they did, you'd come out into a clearing with a large highway never used and too obscure for anybody who wasn't local.

 

The blue thing John still didn't know a thing about was standing on the highway, waving at them to come closer. John frowned, looking around the empty area, and turned to Sam with a confused look. Sam just grinned, and nodded his head towards the sky.

 

Where a large jet suddenly appeared in view.

 

John gaped at the black jet, watching as it proceeded to expertly land on the stretch of highway. A groan came from beside him, Dean's eyes opening just a slither to look at the plane before closing shut again. “'m not goin' in tha' thin'.” Dean slurred, head lolling down until his chin rested against his chest.

 

Heart breaking and mending, John gave a watery grin and pressed his chapped lips to his son's hair. “Still afraid of planes, son?”

 

Dean didn't reply, but John's attention was caught by the jet's cargo bay door opening up and a group of people coming out. The first one to spot them was a muscled man with wild hair, who took one look at them and vehemently swore. The blue thing was rambling without breathing about what had just happened, sounding for all it was worth like he was freaking out about what The Demon had said about it, but shut his mouth when an old man in a wheelchair wheeled down the ramp and towards them urgently.

 

“Come, quickly! Bring Dean in!”

 

Of course John hesitated, gripping his first born tightly to him, never one to just _rely_ on other people. But Sam stared up at him imploringly, holding Dean up from the other side, and John suddenly realised with a start what he'd witnessed in the cabin was Sam using his _powers_. The powers Dean had said were _his_ , the powers John had mistaken for supernatural and had him losing both his sons. Dimly, he wondered if it had anything to do with the rumours of _mutants_ he'd been hearing of lately, whether it had anything to do with the tales hunter's spread through the grapevine of coming across frightened people who didn't react to iron, salt, or holy water but still had powers.

 

Sam stared at him, eyes dark but wide. “Trust me, dad.”

 

And after a heavy moment, John nodded, counting his blessings that at least Dean seemed to have finally passed out.

. . .

Dean never woke up after that.

 

With multiple internal bleeding, wounds scattered across his body from what must've been a previous hunt, Dean had been in critical condition and refused to wake up. They'd all been forced to take him to a hospital, with the professor footing the bill before John could even think to, and had only been able to move him to the Mansion's clinic a week ago. The doctor's spoke with too much technicalities and kept their faces carefully blank. It was Beast – Doctor Hank – that bluntly told them Dean was in a coma and had very little chance of coming out.

 

“But we will try everything in our nature to help, Mr. Winchester.” Sam tuned in to hear Dr. Hank tell a blank faced John. “The professor has an idea that may possibly work.”

 

Sam blinked slowly, the words taking a moment to register before making sense. Both he and John turned to face the professor, watching him wheel himself into the clinic where John and Sam had refused to leave Dean since they'd brought him here. Jean stood by the professor's side, both of them with the same grimace on their faces as they came closer towards the three Winchesters, Dean lying unconscious on the bed with only life support keeping him alive, and stopped in front of them.

 

“Mr. Winchester,” the professor smoothly began, aiming his words at John. “As I've already introduced myself, allow me to tell you what my mutation is. I am telepathic – a mind reader, if you will – and of all the people I've come across, your son – Dean – seems to have something that can block me. However, we think that there might be a chance Samuel may be able to slip through it.”

 

John's fingers clenched around the blanket covering Dean from the waist down, playing with a loose thread. “How is it Dean can block you?”

 

The professor grimaced, long fingers steeping together as he answered. “I do not know, but I believe Dean may also be a mutant. The x-gene is genetics, Mr. Winchester, and will most likely either have come from you or their mother. A simple blood test will show us if you have the gene, Mr. Winchester. Would that be permissible?” John's head dropped at the mention of the mother, piquing the professor's interest, but came up a moment later with a solid nod. As Hank went to retrieve a needle and started the process of drawing the father's blood, Charles wheeled himself closer towards Sam on the opposite side of where John sat, smiling reassuringly at the young teen. “I do not want to do anything against your wishes, Samuel.” He said quietly. “Are you up to it?”

 

Hank finished with the extraction as Sam nodded with a frown. “Of course I want to help.” The seventeen year old answered, eyes darting to his father as John got up and left the clinic before coming to rest on the professor. “What do I do?”

 

Charles waved Jean closer until she stood beside them, and the two of them held out a hand for Sam to hold. The teen looked at the proffered hands curiously, but dutifully locked hands with them. “Now Samuel,” the professor began, casting a look at the lying figure of the older Winchester brother. “Jean and I will lead you towards Dean, and provide you the route. Once you feel you're in, try to reach Dean. If you feel threatened at any point, merely squeeze our hands and we'll attempt to bring you back.”

 

Sam nodded tightly as Jean smiled kindly at him, nervously squeezing his eyes shut. At first, he couldn't feel or hear anything besides the smooth hands of both the professor and Jean and the steady beeps of Dean's life support, but he kept at it and held his patience. Slowly, in small intermittent pauses, the feel of palms underneath his own disappeared, the beeps continued steadily, distracting him from losing contact with his guides, until he felt like he was _floating_ in a sea of darkness with nothing but Dean's life support to keep him company. Worry had his pulse rising, heart thudding in his chest, but he kept quiet and still, trying to trust in his guide's abilities to lead him to where they were certain he should be, and only strained his senses so he wouldn't miss it.

 

That's when he felt it, the soft force of something grabbing him and _pulling_ , pinging his senses and forcing an exhalation of breath from him. It only picked up in strength and speed, steadily pulling him further and further into the abyss of the dark, until it all but felt like he was hurtling towards a collision that was bound to be painful, one that wasn't meant to _be_. Panic gripped him then, hard and fast around his throat, heart fighting to come out via his mouth, and his fingers grappled at whatever they could, trying to _squeeze_ , lips parting to try and _say something_ , when all of a sudden he sort of _crashed_ into something that felt like water, the shock of ice cold liquid freezing his senses for a moment before the sound of something shattering all around him burst into his frozen brain. _'This must be the block their talking about,'_ he thought dazedly, his body slowly waking up from the rough treatment bit by bit. The first sense to come back was _touch_ , and he could _feel_ himself sitting on a chair – the same comfortable chair he'd been sitting on in the clinic. Was he back there? At the clinic? Was he able to squeeze the professor or Jean's hand and have them bring him back? Worried, Sam blinked his eyes open, blinking a few times to get his sight to start working again. He recognised his surroundings as indeed being the clinic he'd been in before, his hearing suddenly _popping_ and bringing with it the steady beeps from the machine Dean was hooked up to – but the clinic was empty.

 

Sam looked around slowly, taking in the empty seat his dad had been in, the place where Hank had been fiddling with some equipment, the space in front of him where the professor and Jean had been. The room was lit up, just like it'd been right before he'd closed his eyes, but besides the steady beeps, everything was silent in a way that irked him, had shivers crawling up his spine. Gulping loudly, Sam turned his attention to the bed, first seeing with no small amount of relief that Dean's life support was still working, that Dean was still there, that Dean was still under the blankets--

 

\--that Dean's green eyes were peering back at him.

. . .

 

There was a very good reason Logan wasn't in the clinic. Every time he so much as _saw_ John Winchester, he felt the raging need to punch the stupid bastard in the face and be done with it. Then he'd see the damn kid look on the verge of tears, his big brother holding on to life by a thin thread, and he found himself wanting to do _more_ than just punch John Winchester in the face.

 

So he stayed far away from the clinic, and took his anger out on stimulations in the danger room.

 

He was heading to the garage now, thinking maybe it was time he did a tune up on his motorcycle while he still had the chance, when a sudden smell caused him to frown. Nose scrunching up, he sniffed the air carefully, scrunching his nose up in disgust at the smell of distant blood and rotten eggs, and followed it until he realized it was coming from the garage – the garage where his motorcycle was stored. Hurrying faster, Logan weaved through the hallways until he reached the door leading to the garage and the outside world, and rushed through it with a threat ready on his tongue – a threat that would never quite find the light of day.

 

The garage – _his_ garage, and fine, maybe Summers too – had been vandalised, no word better for it, with drawings that looked to suspiciously be painted in blood spread across the walls. The floor was adorned with a huge circle one, no sign of his motorcycle or Summers' car anywhere, and John Winchester stood in the middle of the mess with a bowl of who knew what, a bunch of strange smelling herbs, and a man in an expensive looking dark suit.

 

Fighting back the urge for physical violence, Logan stalked into the room and clasped a fist round Winchester's shirt. “What the _hell_ are you doing?” He growled, waving his free hand at the mess to clarify his question. “And who the hell is this?” His free hand jabbed in the direction of the man in the suit.

 

John didn't even look at him, keeping his focus on the man standing in the middle of the circle. Logan noticed John and himself were on the outside of the intricate looking design on the floor the man stood on, and even more so the bowl in John's hand was full of the stuff he'd been smelling, including the blood. There was a long cut across John's palm, blood still oozing rhythmically, a testament as to where the blood came from, but John didn't seem bothered by it all. “Saving my son.” He replied, voice bland and factual.

 

Logan took one look around the place, one look at the still bleeding palm, another at the bowl, and figured whatever the Winchester was planning, it wasn't something good. But if the guy had an idea on saving his son, then Logan wanted to hear it. “And how ya plan on doing that?”

 

The man in the suit chuckled, swaying on the balls of his feet, his hands stuffed into his jacket's pocket. “John here wants to make a deal. His son, for him. Heart warming, isn't it?”

 

Logan stared at the man, then at John, and back at the man. “And how's that gonna work? What _are_ you?”

 

“Oh how rude of me,” the man replied, voice laden with a heavy British accent. “Name's Crowley. Deals are kind of my thing.”

 

“Let go of me, Wolverine.” John spoke up, voice thick with tension. “This is the only way.”

 

The only way for what? Logan didn't have a clue what this Crowley was, but he smelled wrong, he smelled like that woman with the black eyes did, a _demon_ , and from what the kid (that being Sam, damn there was too many kids in his life) had told him, demons were never a good idea. John wanted to give himself to a demon to get his son back? Make a deal? How stupid was that? “You've got to be kidding me. No.”

 

The demon Crowley groaned in good nature as John finally glared at Logan. “You don't get a say in this. That's my _son_ in there, all but _dead_ , because of _me_.”

 

“And when you go running off with a demon – the very thing that put your son up there – ya think he's gonna be happy?” Logan shot back irritably. “Bad enough you've already messed that kid up with hunting him down.” John flinched, a sure sign Logan had hit a nerve, and the Canadian carried on. “Yer running away. Short and simple. You want to be gone with a good reason by the time he wakes up so you don't have to go through the explanations, or the chance he might hate you. You're a goddamn _coward_.”

 

“Shut _up_.” John hissed, glaring at him fiercely. “It's none of your business, so just _leave_.”

 

“Fuck no.” Logan swore, gripping John by the collar tighter, blades erupting from his free hand. He felt a sliver of vindictive satisfaction as Winchester's eyes glanced at the knives and widened in surprise, before blanking into a professionally neutral face. But Logan could still smell the spike in adrenaline coming off the man, as well as feel John's body tense further under his fist. “Yer going to go up to that clinic and _care for your son_ , and not goddamn _die_ , because it's the least you can do for him. You think dying will make up for all yer horrible decisions? Hell no. And you,” he pointed the blades at the demon. “Get the hell out of my garage. No deal.”

 

The demon cocked an eyebrow, smarmy as hell, and looked to John. Logan was sure the Winchester was going to just flip him off and continue on with the deal, he seemed pigheaded enough and had the same stubborn streak he remembered seeing in Sam's face that very first time, and wondered for a moment whether Dean had taken after his mother. But then something broke in John's expression, his body just went loose, like a puppet's strings snipped, and the dark haired man sighed warily before turning his back to the demon – a clear dismissal.

 

“Shame.” The British demon (and could you even _get_ British demons? Logan thought this was _insane_.) sighed theatrically. “Now how about rubbing off a bit of this damn trap so I can leave, eh?” John turned towards him, inching closer to the circle and blurring the lines with the toe of his boot. “Wonderful,” the demon purred, “Now let's just hope Dean-o's strong enough to withstand the light.” A pause, then a glance at the garage door leading to the mansion, and the demon – Crowley – snorted in amusement. “Actually, let's hope your boy's strong enough to withstand a Reaper.”

 

And with that, the demon was suddenly gone. Just like that, one minute there and a blink later gone.

 

Logan rubbed at his eyes, sniffed at the air experimentally, but besides the smell of herbs and blood, nothing change except the increase smell of rotten eggs – Sulphur, he realised – signalling the demon's exit, and turned to face John. “Fuckin' creepy.” He muttered under his breath, then stopped as he saw all the colour drain from John's face. “Winchester?” He asked carefully. “You're not gonna faint, are ya?”

 

But John didn't wait for him, or seem to hear him, instead turning round and dashing towards the garage door like a bat out of hell, heading towards the clinic.

. . .

 

“You know you're not fooling me, right?”

 

Startled, Sam tumbled out of his chair, falling to the floor in a messy sprawl. He immediately scrambled back up to his feet, joy gripping him hard at seeing his brother awake and _alive_ and conscious, but came to a complete stop on seeing Dean's expression. The older brother looked suspicious, wary, and perfectly fine on the hospital bed, sitting with his legs crossed and his hands resting in the space between them. The steady _beep beep beep_ continued anyway, despite none of the equipment being hooked up to Dean, and Sam blinked and drank in the sight of his brother. Dean still looked pale, especially with the white clothing they'd changed him into at the hospital, freckles scattered across his cheekbones more apparent with the skin tone than they'd normally be.

 

“What're you talking about?” Sam questioned, picking up the chair he'd thrown over and sitting back in it.

 

Dean scowled at him, and Sam only then noticed how his brother was tense, wound up tight and ready to spring, eyeing him like one eyes a rabid animal. “You're not Sammy. You can't pretend you're him and talk me into leaving.”

 

Leaving? _Leaving?_ Sam scooted forward until he was right next to his brother, panic gripping him at his brother's words. “Leaving? Dean where does it want you to go? What is it? Who do you think I am?”

 

A snort. “Oh, rich. You're seriously gonna play that card with me?”

 

Sam swallowed the thick lump in his throat. “ _Dean._ ”

 

And Dean's eyes widened in recognition. “Sam?”

 

Relief chased away the panic, and finally Sam grabbed at his brother's arms and held on tight. “It's me, Dean. It's me. What the hell is going on? Who's after you? Why won't you wake up?”

 

“Wake up?” Dean immediately responded, confused. “What're you talking about Sammy?”

 

“Dean,” Sam sighed. “You've been in a coma for three weeks. You won't wake up.”

 

His brother's pale face suddenly went paler, just a shade lighter than a vengeful ghost's. “Shit,” Dean swore, fingers curling into a fist. “I don't know how long I've been here, but it hasn't been _that_ long. It couldn't have? Are you OK? Is Dad...? Is Dad OK? Wait, if I'm in a coma, then what're you doing here?”

 

Sam patted his brother's arm consolingly, and went about answering his brother's questions, never forgetting his own. “We're all OK, Dean. Got the demon too, but you were badly hurt. Professor Xavier and Jean have been trying to get a reading on you – remember them? The telepathic guys – but they said you had some kind of block on you and couldn't get through. So they got me to try, and here I am.”

 

His brother's reply to this was to scowl harder, jerkily getting off the bed and standing up to his feet. “You shouldn't have come here, Sam. It's dangerous!”

 

“Dean.” Sam said slowly, carefully. “What's after you? Why are you stuck here?”

 

Something floated in his periphery vision, but when Sam turned to look he saw nothing. Dean must've seen it too, for he went a shade paler still and scrambled across the bed to Sam, clutching his little brother by the shoulders and pulling him in a random direction. “We have to go.”

 

Sam allowed himself to be manhandled, despite already being an inch or so taller than Dean, but didn't let up in his questioning. “Dean, _what is it?_ ”

 

“A Reaper, OK?!” Dean answered back harshly, spitting the words out from between his teeth. “It wants me to go into the freakin' light and won't take no for an answer.”

 

Sam's feet stopped moving, inertia yanking Dean back from stalking ahead. “A _Reaper_?” Sam hissed, all pretence of calmness flying out of the window. “What the hell, _why_?”

 

“Well, apparently, when a person dies, they get their own Reaper – how the hell should I know?” Dean forcibly yanked him again, moving Sam until they left the clinic and entered out into the hallway. Again, Sam noticed the lack of people, the deserted, still, mansion, and figured it made sense if this was Dean's mental landscape and a Reaper was after him. At least, he _thought_ it should make sense. Dean came to a stop at a door, opening it up and shoving Sam inside before following through, and Sam found himself in what he knew to be Hank's office but with a helluva lot more decorations. Devil's Traps, protection sigils, hiding sigils, everything and anything Sam had seen and read in books was everywhere, some in blood and others in sharpie or whatever Dean must have found lying around in the office. Dean must've seen him admiring the view, because after shoving him into a chair and sitting in one across from it, Dean spoke up again. “None of it works, geekboy, so don't look so happy.”

 

Focusing on the situation at hand, Sam scooted closer, unconsciously giving in to his need to be close to his big brother. “Dean, even if it is a Reaper, it's fine. We'll find a way to get you out of here, man. Alright?”

 

Green eyes studied him before closing as Dean sighed and ran a hand across his face and into his hair. “Look Sammy, I might not be able to leave, but I sure as hell ain't dragging you to the afterlife with me. You have to go.”

 

“No, Dean.” Sam instantly replied, not even bothering to say _I can't_. He didn't know for sure, but he doubted he'd be able to squeeze the professor or Jean's hands even if he'd closed his eyes and _willed it_. “I'm not leaving you. I'm stronger now, Dean, a hell of a lot stronger than when you'd left me at the mansion as a fourteen year old. I can help.”

 

Dean laughed incredulously at him, shaking his head. “This is a _Reaper,_ Sammy, not a ghost or a werewolf. You can't fight death.”

 

The door to the office rattled, grabbing both their attention. Sam turned to look and saw the dark shape of a figure behind the opaque glass, and couldn't help but wonder how a Reaper would look. That's when the door opened, the door knob turning as if Dean hadn't locked it and jammed a doorstop underneath it, and a dark haired woman walked through. The first thing Sam really noticed about her was her clothes – white, bland, just like Dean's – and how unassuming she looked. There was no black cloak, no hood, no scythe or any other weapon to be seen. Hell, she was even cute, the type of girl Sam knew his brother would go for in any other situation. He didn't let it fool him though, Dean had gotten out of his chair and stood a step in front of Sam, tense and protective in a way Sam had missed.

 

“Tessa.” Dean greeted her curtly, failing to cover up Sam behind him since his little brother was now taller.

 

Sam couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the name, watching as the newly named Tessa returned the nod sadly. “Dean.” She hadn't seemed to yet notice Sam, which was a miracle in and of itself – or maybe Reapers could only see the souls they'd been chosen to go after? Sam didn't know, but he was definitely going to read up on them as soon as they, him and Dean, were _out_. “Dean, it's time. I can't keep letting you hang on like this. You have to choose. Stay and become the things you hunt? Or go?”

 

“You know I can't go, Tessa.” Dean replied surly, ignoring Sam's fingers gripping into the material of his shirt at the small of his back. “I have to get back, I can't just _go._ ”

 

“You won't.” Sam spoke up, realizing this was something the two had already argued over and not wanting to waste their time. Dean hadn't known he'd been in a coma, Dean hadn't known he'd been in a coma for _three weeks_ , meaning the passage of time here was different than it was on the outside. If Sam didn't hurry this up and get Dean out of here to safety, back to the waking world, who knew whether or not the professor and Jean would just forcibly bring him back? “He's not going to die. He's coming back with me, _alive_.”

 

Tessa's dark eyes landed on him over Dean's shoulder, startled at his presence before those eyes narrowed into recognition. The air around her right hand shimmered, and- _there_ , there was the scythe Sam had been expecting, shorter than the ones shown in lore but looking just as sharp and deadly, and the young woman didn't appear as unseemly as she'd first looked. “It's his _time_.” She argued, fingers gripping round the scythe warningly as she took a step towards them. “I don't know how you got here, but it's my duty to take him and I won't let you stop me.”

 

Incensed, Sam shoved Dean aside, using his slightly taller frame and gravity to get Dean to budge and stood in front, keeping his brother behind him. Just as he'd done in the cabin, with far more confidence than since then, Sam raised his arm and held his palm out towards the Reaper in preparation. Tessa's grip on the scythe tightened, and she took one step towards him, another, then a third, before _lunging_ towards them with the scythe arching above her and down again straight at them. Sam didn't so much as falter, gathering every ounce of whatever it was and thrusting his hand at her, batting her away with his telekinesis just like he'd been taught, and the force of it crashed into the Reaper, taking her by surprise, and her pretty face twisted into recognition and disgust.

 

“ _Azazel!_ ” She shouted, thrown backwards by the telekinetic push, and crashed through the door she'd arrived through. Sam ran after her, not willing to let her go, dimly wondering why she'd called him that and what the name could mean, but Dean grabbed him by the arms and held him tight, wrapping his arms around him as Tessa suddenly dissipated into wisps of gray smoke, disappearing like grains of sand.

 

And the next thing Sam knew, he was staring into John Winchester's frantic face.

. . .

 

Dean gasped, coughing and spluttering as Hank and John set about getting rid of the incubator. Sam was beside him in a blink with a glass of water, a pale face, and a straw, and Dean, knowing from knowledge not to drink too fast, carefully sipped at the cool liquid to sooth his aching throat. When all the water was finished and he still didn't feel satisfied, Dean groaned pitifully and lay back down on the bed, trying to even his breathing and slow his racing heart.

 

“How'd you get the Colt, anyway?” He croaked out after some thought, remembering the cabin, remembering the Yellow Eyed Demon, remembering Sam holding the legendary weapon and threatening to use it.

 

“What,” Sam replied indignantly. “You really thought I'd just sit in this mansion doing _nothing_?”

 

And Dean snorted. “Should've known,” he groaned theatrically with a knowing tilt, peering at Sam through half mast eyes. “You got a damn vision 'bout it, didn't you?” He accused, then tried hard not to laugh and irritate his wounds as Sam flushed at being found out and tried to cover it up with an epic bitchface.

 

“Hey, where's my car, anyway?”

**Author's Note:**

> You have the right to remain silent and roll on over to my tumblr, [sheriffbadass](http://sheriffbadass.tumblr.com). You have the right to send asks, and if you're too shy for it, then you shall be appointed the veil of anon to allow you to do so.
> 
>  **Edit:** This story was meant to have a sequel, but unfortunately it just isn't coming together. With that said, chances of said sequal actually happening are slim to none. Sorry guys!


End file.
